Vignette

dressing her for the pyre
with a sari
that she would never wear
draping her tiny form,
a mother presses
the last round bindi
onto her baby's face,
whispering words
of love and loss,
for a life
taken away too soon;

a daughter draped
in red and white,
and a bindi
centered
between her brows,
lights her father's chest
with a handful of fire
torn from her burning gut,
and she whispers nothing;

a deathly silence
smudges the edges,
and deepens the colours
of a wordless void
etched in the ether -
of a mother,
a daughter,
their loss, and
an unbordered love.

Last Night

last night
when I left home
you were not at the door
where you always stood
hunched,
but tall in your heart,
seeing me off
with a smile in your being;

last night
when I left home
you were not at the door;
but amma was there -
hunched
but tall in her heart,
seeing me off
with a smile in her being;

last night
when I left home
you were not at the door
where you always stood;
but you were there
in the frail form
that stood alone now,
framed in the light
of what I know now
is your home.

Opium

wading
through darkness,
blinded by tears
that sting
her exposed innards,
she rests awhile
upon an empty sky
blackened
by the fires
of hate
that raged,
and ravaged
her womb;
all is taken now,
every scrap
of thought
consecrated
to memory;
her worn out eyes
close awhile
and remember
the primordial dance
of exploding stars;
as she lays her dreams
upon wayward clouds
beneath a new moon night,
and where solitude
is the opium
of her precious broken heart.

Loss and Love

the fire
has burnt
itself out,
woodsmoke
chokes
the spaces
between
dying embers,
their glow
muted,
like tears of rain
on damp clay.

the fire
once aroused
by the space
between
presence
and absence,
breath
and death,
lies buried
like a coffin
wrapped
in glory,
lowered
too soon.

for what is loss
to a heart
set off
by the sun
and flaming stars,
beating to
the pause
and turn
of wheels
on windswept ash,
blazing new paths?

this dying fire
is not enough now
to warm a heart
that trembles,
learning anew
to dip herself
in unbecoming
icy waters,
for she's been
too warm,
too long.

and with the
smouldering remains
of what once seemed
like the tremulous glow
of dancing twilight,
darkness
wraps me up quick,
the only warm blanket
on a cold black night,
when fire meets ice.

but the fire
will be lit again
tomorrow,
the spent wood ash
will be cleared
and used
in the garden,
the logs will be
rearranged
and laid lightly,
and a heart
that's grown cold
will be warmed
again,
to sing
by the fire
of a new sun.