By Poorvanshi Tyagi
I say my mother doesn’t understand me
And go on to rest in her sleeves,
Tugging at the wool
Like it’s the only god who’ll save me.
I’d shelter my belongings against her footsteps
And run bearing dreams in my pockets-
“Any dream but her would do,” I’d think.
But when you run into the unknown,
You are torn into bits;
No speed bumps prepare you for this.
Slowly through the trees, her softening eye
Follows the life that was her make-believe.
Dream a little dream-
She was a dreamer too,
She was the child who’d run next to you.
I am her embodiment,
I am her wish,
I’m a simple prayer
Her hands fold to.
Her shouting pushes me,
But if I listen closely,
It was cut out of shrills
From a lullaby-
Renewed to help,
Forced to solidify.
Beneath the wrath
Are broken wells
Where her grief
Cascades down the cracks.
I say my mother doesn’t understand me,
But she shed the life
I now protect.
Her caress pours light
Into every crack there was to exist.
I’ll bear her anger
Like she withholds my silence-
Both learn to love
And hold on to live.