Rina Banerjee
Her hair was there while lost in one place. Not to stare if her sunny dome could be roped to be opened. Buttered in benevolence, seated dead center her a balding beacon, her mind a temple, crossing all paths, all forsaken, never stolen and always bolder., 2021
ink and acrylic on paper
15 x 11 in
38.1 x 27.9 cm
38.1 x 27.9 cm