My grandmother is a vendor

Like her friend next door whose

Friend next door is also a vendor

My grandmother does not sell

Mahamri

Barazi

Chai

Halwa

My grandmother sells jars

with ghosts

faces without eyeballs

a cold gust of air

Her maid tells us she wants to die

but the sheikh said she wont die

Until she sells her jars

Neighbours are intrigued

Say that this ghost looks like

Fulano this and fulano that

But they never buy

My grandmother’s jars

Her maid says that you can’t sell

Your own ghosts anyway

Says she wishes grandmother

Could get rid of them some other way

Her maid says that you should

Never agree to hold someone’s ghost

Not even for a minute

Because nobody is ever going to take a ghost back

-on rickshaws tumbling with history