Mornings in spring are series of miracle mails –
A maiden voice in the cabinet,
Look in the mirror and dab some red,
Fill the acoustic tongue with toned words:
A lathered taste of pasteurized milk,
and sing with a spatula perhaps.
Mother’s fallen hair like steel wool scrubber in dyed black
on the dressing table makes you feel your lass hair,
The hatchling and a crestfallen flesh sing a dirge together –
The echo travelling slow as honey drips from cuckoo’s chord:
These a.m.’s are pretty and young,
Sweet tea and cookies
Or mother’s indulgent rice and jaggery pancakes,
Her grey hair over the kitchen stove, brittle and treated by heat,
Tanned wrinkles on her hands like sullen rays of summer dusk.
My youth travels like empty skulls down the road,
Two roses flanking my swollen breasts
and fading vermillion in her hairline
are both red in different hues.
The cellar is vacant, smells of cupped light fermented in a room full of darkness –
I would like to fit a frame of my youth in them
when moss starts to stitch the jailed ribs;
I'll hence come back to feed the room,
nourish its health,
name it a grave that will never fossilize.