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For a Mother Who Couldn't Stay and other poems by Meribeni Murry



It rains in my town when I think of you


Shouldn't I have known better?

Nobody walks away from a burning cemetery unscathed

It's the little shivers we take home;

into our bed, on our bowed little shoulders and our spine never stands the same again


We buried you young on a rainy

day like this

Since then the sky in my tiny world

wears a permanent frown — the colour black


Black like the premature five o'clock shadow that refuses to leave my father's haggard face when he sees his daughter sieve grief on her bed on an empty stomach every night.


I watch the seasons drag by from my window while I sit on the cusp of a year that will soon become a memory

while the sky in my little world promises a deluge


But bring it on, I tell it

I've had the blues

I've had too much of the blacks

and a rain bath might wash away the smell of dead colours from my skin


"Goodbye, my darling" I whisper

"Hold on tight to your coffin and

by the dream of me",

And the sky breaks free while the weatherman only shakes his head


I tell you, nobody walks away

from a mourning graveyard

unscathed:

You learn to have a keen sense

of smell—Like the familiar smell of

mortality, you understand?



When the eunuchs danced


They came, one after the other until my eyes couldn't number them. Beautiful women harmonizing in rich baritones. Their multi-coloured saris stirring my shrouded heart. And then a drum beat, a slow beat first and they broke into richly clad butterflies gliding on air, crooning a tragedy of yesteryear's bigotry. The beating picked up a rhythm. My heart somersaulted in my throat


I held his hands tighter. He tapped his one foot, then the other: his eyes, a rich colour of soft browns. I felt my love bursting through. And then their breathing intensified and now they were graceful gazelles prancing flawlessly and the rhythm and the ghungroo and the sweat blended into an expression of freedom


They twirled. Hips swaying, their mehendi bony hands taking form, Kohl doe eyes half shut and I was drunk and I felt drunk and my heart impatiently stirred again as Liberation, fresh as vermilion, unknotted the last taut fear in my uterus. Almost in a trance, I blurted out,


"I have a fig tree for a uterus. Does that make me less a woman?"


The air crackled. My nape bristled and my uterus kicked. Sometime ago, the divine beating had stopped and I felt all eyes on me, holding their breaths


But I was deep staring into a pair of cold judgemental eyes clouded in disappointment before the last remaining dregs of brown-like coffee disappeared into a thick veil of contempt


I felt my uterus kick again



Apo (Father)


upon you, the October sun

singe your skin leaving tiny pinpricks

of red-like dots that run down

the bridge of your nose like ants


unbothered — you water the

potato plants, whistling as you pull out the weeds with your farmer fingers that

knows the leafy breath of

vegetables as well as the secret of

what lies underneath the roots.


i have never seen squirrels

except in pictures or the TV but

when I think of squirrels, I see you:


with your potatoes and the weeds

under the sun, a fine stash

for your daughter

who likes her plate of mashed potatoes because it mouths "father" even

through the firmness of a tight lip

and


i wonder if anyone in my life

will live up to your sweat or the calloused stiffness of your hands.

The year is past its cusp already and you are six months slower than last year but


out of habit, I cling to you and unlike

mother whose face is a white blur

I can never entirely trace,

you never leave and


out of habit, you put an extra

spoonful of mashed potatoes on my plate whose every swallow heralds a soft smile and a slow unclenching of jaws


i think "out of habit" is our

silent love language, an unmouthed

"I love yous" at dinner that brings to mind an image of a fabled squirrel with


its stash of nuts or even mashed

potatoes from scratch with its salty brine and dirt-filled fingers,

which is to say


i know you love me when you

tend to the potatoes under the

grumbling October sun,

which is also to say this


love is aching backs and slowing

gait before its due time

But it is still an aged fable of

a love only your daughter

can understand



For a mother who couldn't stay


In a parallel universe,

Let's say — all is gold year round

Father's eyes are dewy meadows

when the sun descends to light the fire of your hearth


If you agree,

He is all beard and gruff tenderness inside your laughing eyes. He even smiles to the tinkle of your anklet on the bare floor


Let's assume

You twirl like a shy goddess to the songs that spring from his lips.

Even better— you both agree in union there's a break-even point — you're the neck on which his head moves


I am sleeping on nature's gold

"Father", I call out and the trees offer me their fruits

"Mother", and I do not choke on the fruit that is your face


See why we are dust and it is love that

keeps us from scattering in the wind?

There are no shadows to chase for now and

Eden softly stirs to our laughter



In times of war


You are a house of gloom dressed in kerosene these days. Your father

tells you the world is full of

people who escape like sunbeams

from finger gaps by which he means to tell you to be careful

But you want to be the branch

of a tree or the half-buried stones of the earth - anywhere where your toes are rooted to the soil of your birth

In the morning, you read of the wars

The man on the TV keeps counting

numbers and casualties like eggs

from brown cartoons

You wish to tell him there were

boys named after their mother’s

favourite flowers and colors too - Nasturtium

for victory. Orange for joy

And the girls? What about them?

Looped like the face of a moon

or hoop

earrings. You can tell.

The moon is a sweet-tempered

girl from the safety of your

home because you once tongued her

and turned silver.

The soil of your land binds you to

your father’s bones. The river of your mother’s thighs gave you your name and it means – Peace. Let

there be the absence of war. You

know as you look up at

the stars tonight, the broken lips

of a child wish

on your name before he slips out your fingers.

Like sunbeams dying in the night,

you know in

times of war, anyone can die

without an explanation. You know

in times of war, only the flies, win


 

About the Poet:



Meribeni Murry is a poet from Nagaland. Poetry is her instrument of survival through life's darkest hours. When not writing poems, she can be found in her backyard, deep in silent dialogue with trees, or in the company of her beloved cats. Her poetry navigates the landscapes of personal loss, familial bonds, relationships, grief, and her profound connection with nature.

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