They say she walks in bangle chimes –
The ones they found beneath her feet,
The ones they swear she only wore
The times her lover came to meet.

They say she comes on Durga’s day
And walks the roads till Kaali’s night.
They say she chooses whom to haunt
And whom to grant the curse of sight.

Of course, the ones who see her, die
Before they get to tell their tales.
But, every year there is a death
With tiny marks of fingernails.

Some say they are just lover’s nails
You buy per hour with gambled cash,
Until you run your luck away,
And back you go to picking trash.

Some say they must be puncture marks
From spatulas of boiling highs.
But most agree they are her claws
And shake their heads with heavy sighs.

This year, already, two are dead,
Though no one knows if she’s to blame.
The corpses bulged in beating rain
And drink from losses in the game.