Kasturba Gandhi
Mohatma,
is it the trace of lemon juice on your lips
that puckers them,
or me?
You hum as you scrape up excrement
beneath the dry sun, yet when it sets
I am untouchable.
Mohatma,
you rise up like full moon tide
but you need me like salt
to anchor you,
hold on to by the seat of your dhoti
and keep you from floating up among gods.
- Laura Boffa