By Mohana Talapatra
Mother struck the gleaming Steinway
a tinkling C-major
as she hummed a spring bee’s love-song
meant to echo down her umbilical cord
straight into your little pink ears;
so Spring could pollinate
her longing into
a holding.
And then,
You emerged in Summer
not paisley pink
smelling of spray daisies and
baby’s breath
nor of errant wildflowers
just
red, tight-fisted
wailing and angry
at the world that birthed you
You held on to it,
this rancour
you let it bleed and percolate
You let it roast
upon the raised beds of
regret, that Father was
too afraid to acknowledge;
and the ferocity, that Mother
could not contain.
Then,
You fell in love.
harvesting this rage
before it was ripe,
upon the fragile hems of all the lives
you touched,
grinding them acidic –
dripping their life-juices
into the French-press
of
regret
bewilderment
rebuke
ardour
woundedness
that was their making,
but also, yours…
leaving the over-ripe residue
of life-powder with the mucilage
of love grown rancid,
like a jackfruit kept too
long
out into the Sun.