Radiance Of A Rosemary

Ma,

If it comes to mind today,

your vermillion mark

at the partition of your hair,

then I must have leapt away

from your bronzed skin

and its holiness.

I would then recall

your folktales

of newly-wed brides

and their palm lines

(traced in constellations),

on my fingertips.

Your lullabies too

(in little sandalwood boxes)

would be for safekeeping,

and so would the fascination

of a five or so years old me.

♢

But here I stand now,

wrapped in a red saree

with golden border

and silken threads,

in the scrutiny

of perfect mirrors.

Perhaps my delicate henna hands

would detach early-spring

from a schoolgirl's diary.

And I promise I won't cry,

when your silver anklets

would no longer

reach to revive a dead root

occasionally,

I would write instead

of your shrill voice

and not so melodious songs,

enthroning each trill

into the rhyming of a poesy

omitting iambic streaks.

♢

When the evening would arrive

with cold undertones,

I would have already renewed

my vermillion mark

as if I were a festival

~ to be decorated,

~ to be celebrated,

~ to be worshipped

within four walls.

But I am not

one of your folktale brides, Ma,

having delicate henna hands

and fairytale princes.

And one day

I would leave the space

between the partition of my hair

unattended, Ma,

only to smile

and repeat hackneyed hymns of

~ I have stained the moon, Ma,

    with palms made of sandstones. ~