Moon in the sieve

We used to see moon in atta sieves
Of married women set to fine music,
Their wedded eyes closed for men.
The sieves make her dizzy at night.

Last we saw her rolled up a ball
On snow hills, her pearly laughter
Sprinkled like fine wheat powder
That would turn us to pale ghosts.

(atta is fine wheat powder for making dough for the Indian breads)

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