she wanted me to have a name caught between two crowns I embraced it. Danced to her humming in the evenings I twirled on that cream carpet with dark chocolate edges Put my foot on the cane chair and made it an apostrophe Because she said, “Only Solomon sits on that chair.” Solomon was gone, but we all nodded. When the Christmas trees regained their fame, We visited her town and listened to the rhythm of the pestles against the mortar Dinner was a dynasty. The dynasty was built on sand I giggled and listened to embroidered stories of her past. Holy hyperbole! she had almost met her gods. Lyrics of mythical victories, Idyllic song on her lips, Feet stomping as my palms strike each other like a Sapphire sling stone. Pawned half-love and my unworldly smile I was bathed in my ancestral adulation, sheltered in opaque glamor Taught about the dangers of being a precarious princess. she called me, “Daughter of the town planning king, daughter of the lion.” So, I spoke her language, drank her wine, imitated her inflections with the infamous cultural insolence and I was content. she was wheeled away half-alive The truth had left her mortally wounded. My sword polished. Battle cry on my lips I knew she had caused the war, but I gasped in horror, cried, ran upstairs and cursed the little stars didn’t sleep. Two days later, she turned the key and died with a shrug she had let the enemy in, said some prayers, dipped six arrows in poison and handed the bow to her favourite child Stunned, I let it pierce me. Father and Mother bled too, their blood pooling at my feet But we fought till my sword became a knife, and then, a sword again. Dawn came with the doom of her beloved sorcery All the secrets revealed, the truth as harsh as the lie Three funerals for her on the same day, peace of the graveyard. All of the drama melts into tragedy, till I laugh through the grief Ten years in the night and the mourning had to end I had to look my father in the face and say sorry Sorry that he couldn’t have a mother when he had one Sorry that when he won, he lost her Sorry that she was lost when he had her. I was two years old when my mother put me in her arms, I cried until she cried But I learnt to love her, but I chose my velvet skin, but I memorized her stories till I learnt Nostalgia is the trade route of an existence where the most romantic disease is a sentiment. In a world full of hate, why do I have to hate someone who Once taught me the wrong ways to love. I can’t stand seeing the photos. I want no frames All the sounds with no signs, all the stories with no words The phonocentrism of a lifetime buried All the while, I wanted to be wrong. I have been rethinking everything, inspecting every memory cooking every thought, Blisters on my brain This is the most solemn tale I cannot rewrite A separation of the manners of comedy into a comedy of manners in my grief, All I have done is rethink everything.
This is so beautiful!