The village women take galvanized buckets
full of dirty laundry
down to the well,
whose belly is swollen
with drowned women and newborn girls.
The women drop
their empty buckets
tied on coconut-husk ropes
and slice the red water
filled with the skeletons
of dead leaves.
Using something like cricket bats
they pound their long saris and blouses.
Random sounds of beating drums
echo across the hills
reminding me of the women that died.
As the women continue choking their clothes,
the cascading bangles
on their tan arms
make a melodious ring
like the first syllables
of a newborn child.
An hour later
I peek through my stained glass window
and see the washed sari's
held down by four solid bricks.
As they lie stiffly on the tar road
mountain winds
sprinkle them with red mud,
like our town is sprinkled
with the aroma of death.