During my undergraduate degree, I completed a semester abroad in South India, where I took Public Health courses through a local university. As part of the programme we went to field visits once a week in the local community. This poem is about one of our visits to a tile factory. I was struck by the state of the factory: a dilapidated building strewn about with broken tiles, bricks, and the like. Dimly lit and dusty, the air was loud with the cranking of machines and the slapping of clay against oiled metal. In the midst of this relative chaos, women decorated by brightly coloured kurtas were working to make bricks on the lower level of the building. I was struck immediately by the contrast between the bright fabric of their clothes, and the dust and dinge that whirled around them. The image of these women, appearing in such stark contrast to their surroundings has stayed with me and from it this poem materialised. 

A girl walks the line, 

Skirt drawn

Hands caked with clay

A grey streak marks her a laborer.

Sweat glistens in the sunlight that has snuck through the thick air 

Her arms carry what will one day be a home 

While her body,

covered by the dust of another man's future, 

Is already home to her own.