broken hearted in Varanasi
the pilgrims are parading to their pooja
and I’m standing to one side
keeping clear of their faith
side-stepping the decorated corpses
dodging the difficult question—”Why not married?”
the city of Shivas up my spine
om-chanting me into submission,
beaten with bindis, roped by rakhis,
the floral garland a noose around my lonely neck
(to be thrown in the ganga or fed to a cow)
all the hippy foreigners have the sideways head nod and the namaste
a hash pipe in their pocket and the lonely planet in their backpack
my camera is my shield, bouncing back their stares
at this ghostly apparition—the single white woman