My mother sang poetry to me as a child
She slipped it into lullabies and evening prayers
Between gulps of boiled milk and brittle rusk
Like biscuits that melt into tea
There are pieces of my memory, forever lost
to native poetesses warning me of the world to come.
I had told her how I wanted a sister
How I didn't know there could be another
Until I saw neighbours tying ribbons in their hair
I wanted the secrets that hand-me-downs whispered
And the grip of a hand as I walked home from school
When she laughed and kissed my cheek
I would learn and grow up learning that there are no answers
Only poems.
The last time I was home
We spent an evening reading Sugathakumari
On a front porch that knew few steps
My tongue slipped clumsily over malayalam rolled into song
And she held my hand to pick up the words I had misplaced
She will always be carrying me.
When the world tries to tell me what I must be and do as a woman
I will go back to this evening
Of the stories of us
When I see strength in myself and others
In the daily protest of how we live
I will pick up remnants of lines she sang to me and
Recognize them for the secrets they were
That
We are built from scarlet letters and scarecrows
Looking up and sideways
Into a camaraderie of shared yet different circumstance