Bolivia Series, Tea Kettle, Pastel, by John Cummings
The Ghetto Heart of Dusk
In the sweetrot of Mumbai,
the sun bares row after row
of serrated teeth.
On the horizon, the moon watches, eyes rolling, as if
behind a blue Picasso print.
Saying I smell the flesh of poverty.
I swallow pills
feel happy,
forgetting what it means to live,
reeking of dusk’s jostling creatures—
men and women cramming the Dardar TT,
while finches dart above.
In the hospital, the news shows
a building on fire
on Dharavi Street—the ghetto heart,
where daily, hands thrust
Into scents:
Turmeric,
Fenugreek,
Cardamom,
The gaps in my teeth.
____________
Elina Kumra