(Indian)

The Indian mother
sits beside her daughter
with her hair
up in a bun.
Her feet slipped free
from her rubber
American sandals,
toes curled under
on the carpet.
The daughter’s
thick hair tumbles
down the chair
back, black and
wavy.
Hair a-plenty
for two or three
women,
unaccustomed to such
abundance.
The mother wears
saris still,
the roll of flesh
around her waist
exposed for all
to see.
The daughter
in the clunky
shoes girls
her age wear,
never has –
except for the
occasional celebration,
as an American
might,
to be Indian
for a night.

I have always
envied Indian
women their cloth
(and the color of their
skin)
To get to glitter
on a regular
basis,
but when I buy
a sari, the dye
rubs off on
my skin
and I find it difficult to walk.

I haven’t learned
yet to wrap
the thing,
though I’m
dedicated to
the idea.
Of clothes that
maintain the
purity of yard
goods –
untouched by button
or seam,
this sari I waited
for – in silk
with gold
threads
pink and green.

3/11/99