Two Moths

Some girls        on the other side of this planet will never know        the loveliness of   walking      in a crepe silk sari.      Instead, they will spend        their days                          on their backs for a parade               of   men           who could be       their uncles in another life.         These girls memorize each slight wobble                  of   fan blade as it cuts through the stale       tea air and auto-rickshaw exhaust,        thick as egg curry. Men         shove greasy rupees        at the door for one hour         in a room with a twelve-year-old.                One hour —               One hour — One hour.            And if   she cries afterward, her older sister       will cover it up.         Will rim the waterline             of   her eyes                 with kohl pencil until it looks like                        two silk moths have stopped      to rest       on her exquisite     face.