Babies And The Bathwater Poem by Meena Kandasamy

On some days of the week
They come up with the lotuses
And greet the first rays of the sun
In all their fresh/flesh/flush pinkness.

Surfacing, as in a pointillist collage,
Speckling the grey-green temple-tank,
They float around like fish-food.
Bloated, just-born, just-dead babies.

In a tight-lipped, time-tested way,
The holy temple removes all traces
Of these floundering ones. Chlorinated,
The bathwater turns pure once more.