I Owe an Apology to Mom

by Ranu Uniyal

Here’s what my mother said to me: “I chopped my words and let you speak.”
She gave me the empty notebooks and the only way
I could fill them up was by writing poems.
Her grisly hands coated my body with sun and oil
And her clean shawl covered my scars, and let me
Sleep. Her prayers ensured I was safe in the midst of wolves
Who often tore her braid and made her sick for days on end.

My mother taught me to love the grass beneath my feet
How it kept me warm so the sorrows wouldn’t suck me sour
“See, the grass is wet and those could have been your tears
All wet and green, it will not hurt. This is Mother Earth,
Mother of all mothers, and you, my dear, will walk with cushioned feet.
I may not accompany you everywhere, but the grass beneath will always be.”

On nights red with lust, the city discarded its egalitarian robes,
Streets littered with bodies burnt and pavements strewn
With dancing skulls, smelled of nail paint mixed with coarse talcum.
The moon went still as the children swayed
With cries of help, old men slowly began to smell
Of foul flesh, with screams ululating in dumb air.

This and a lot more inscribed in a city, a page from history,
Bouncing in glee. The nights bleat
Like widows harangued by cops on duty.
Even the night birds left their wings behind
And walked away with their beaks full of grass
And noses doomed with tears.

Next morning the sun greets me with its mist and brown
Blurred with all the nakedness around, I step away
From grass – neither green nor clean. Grab my notebook,
Tuck it under my blouse; hold them tight, two grisly hands
Bearing the burden of sin and shame,
Fail to assure me, I am alive and can still write.

Pic from https://www.flickr.com/photos/rvirdi/

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