Born 1931
Here, by afternoon the sun slants down like candelabra;heart of mangoes shimmied fairy duston her back. My grandmother picksthe thumba flower talk of Ceylon ill with promise,and placed the courtyard against her chestthe way each train’s melody fluted around her ankles.When she left for good, houseboatsstirred like graveyard leaves, the fresh of every hillwept die die and emptiedits palace of water gentle as ghee.By then, it taught her how to traverse an accentodd to her own. Hard to swallowstuck in the throat is a home once loved.
Born 1966
At ten, my mother spends at the meat stall,brushing chicken feathers awayfrom her face, the smell of blood risinglike poppies on a butcher’s shirt.The radio thick with S. Janaki hittinga note. Garden jasmine in her hair, my motherdreams of singing one day and smiles; fromthe other end she hears: “There’s a hell for people who dream.”It did how knife devours flesh, how filling a lion’s mouthis to carve your death. No one shut her dull brothers then,roaming streets like rivers, daring to dream with chins highthrowing dust when the candle thinned poor and pleadedthe midnight lanterns make rage.
Born 1990
In open calm with roses scenting our pathhe has the mellow tasted that thrills at his traces,such etchings on untouched waters that run like silkof a peignoir. Yet, I wait for him to reach my implosions,the inveterate dark fruit meant for malady:unloosened tongues, fanged fuchsia, the quills of a madden bird,a woman refused, a woman ravished. Allswollen to release, like shudders in a bowstringwhich he cleverly keeps hungry.
Born 1997
Perhaps now is too earlyto sweat gold pins on my weddingwatch crowds pile flattery dissolve like icingat the lip of this banquet. Tell me, when the chandelierflies away like a cicada and stars humchildren’s songs, ripple into sheer gemsas I garb the ocean’s sylph soft as a wink for a veil thatnever fit. These heels more of a stranger crackearth. Above them budding liliespuddle up in hennaed palms, the books putaway. I hear my results are declared. Mother sayssuch things taught me nothing, cherish nothingbut only the essence rendered by marriage. Her voiceis the man who picks up my eyes like dropped cometswho lets them blur without sending them back.