Wednesday, March 13, 2013


She skewed seven stretch marks
bearing eight oysters
who dole out her dowry
in the white of her milk. 

Prayers, her morning manners
the book her gift
for gall and worms, 
red seas never fretted
on her form
where not even a crease
could be carved by
the crown of thorns. 

She wore her veil
to teach hymns
to clouds and children
writing on seedy sand
of the raving rivers
as a ritual. 
She never let her mouth
bisect the body and blood
of Christ, those were alms for her belly
and tooth of her tongue. 

She removed the relics
of the rice she shared
with the starving supplicants
on the stranded streets
each grain fed
without fingers of fossils. 

She is the testimony
to a generation of stars
and stripes
her milky way
saluted with a smile with
her name and
sound of her song, 
the day she gifted us
her birth.

Dedicated to my late grandma

1917- March 14 th 2011

First published in Muse Indian Jan-Feb issue here and Message in a Bottle review here.

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