is hennaing my hand
I am clinging
To these firm peacock lines
Like people who cling
to sides of a train.
Now the furious streets
Are hushed.
I'll scrape off
The dry brown lines
Before I sleep,
Reveal soft as a snail trail
The amber bird beneath.
It will fade in a week.
When India appears and reappears
I'll lean across a country
With my hands outstretched
This perhaps is the nub of the poem. That ‘it will fade’ suggests that her Indian identity, which came to the fore when she had her hands hennaed, will recede, and the Western girl may emerge again.