Sankha Ghosh

Here I lie at the crematorium. Tell them
Such rowdiness does not befit
The building of a pyre.

They, at my head, my feet, beside me,
Are all your serfs.
Tell them.

Tell them to let the infinite step on my chest
And let down her calf-length hair,
The stars blazing in her crown. Let them flee

And, from the unnamed skull-strung necklace
Let drip, let the holy drip,
Cold,
    on my cold face,
       cold breast.