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.