Mother's Day
[For Kashmiri Mothers]
A fringe of leaves
outside your window
casts intricate shadows.
You sit up in bed;
it is only the wind.
You remember
birth cries, the slime
of womb waters.
Clean hair afterwards,
like sepals of tulips.
First taste of milk on soured
lips, thin like sliced roses
seen through glass.
Dream brush of lashes
barely visible.
dimples on little feet,
pale plums of early summer.
Nails are so sharp already,
fists clench. Feet grow heavy,
descend down the stairs;
cave them in.
Year after year,
caravans pass you by.
Without regret, gold dust
settles on autumn leaves.
Your dream becomes
a distant house.
You reach it, a shadow
slips out of the door,
then another. A thousand
shadows gather around
and you scream.
You have nothing more
to say. Pursed lips
watch camp fires
in Jammu, in Udhampur,
in Pathankot. Your exile.
At home, in Kashmir,
you have learnt
to beat your breasts
like a madwoman
to keep out the hunter.
Your milk, my mother,
for sure, has turned bad.
The blood is still yours
to rage against, rage
My Lioness!
The fire of your womb
is in trees, lakes, rocks.
[© Lalita Pandit, May 10, 1998].
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