Bored of ***, she made a pyre.
Motionless he lay,
The last sandal log hid his sky.

Shriek of raw body echoed
Meek, like crystal hiss of
Torrid metal, phosphorous
And sulphur in the hugging kiln.

As if entering the honeymoon suite,
Fragrant of incense sandal sticks,
Seven footsteps she took,
On to his bed of fire, slumped,
Embraced SATHI.