Calendar

by Sanghamitra Roychowdhury - Not entered


         	              			                                                                 
 She was the consummate cook
 Draining droplets of water from deteriorating bodies
 Hung in white netted cheese cloths
 The spider weaving a web of immortality around me
 
 Using blenders to badger and belittle, mixing morsels of flesh
 With caustic consonants, shortening the laces of my breath     
 Our arguments left an acidic taste in my mouth, with painful precision
 Whittling away at worth with dull, blunt butterknives
 Mortar and pestles that grind, it was like perforating sheets of paper or pride. 
  
 I  gathered string, making a concentric circle out of beads of bravery,
 It was a necklace worn like the promise ring you had given me.
 
 We were in the same Introductory to Psychology class and
 I learned about Maslow's Hierarchy Of Needs, and it was
 Self-Actualization, building pyramids with layers of my own potential
 My chipped ceilings were newly varnished like lacquer tables, with fresh coats of paint.

 I used to be a compass with arrows pointing in divergent directions
 But now you were also my anchor in a crowded, disembarked port, 
 A symbiotic relationship, and I was green moss growing on your
 Rock of Gibraltar, your numerous coral reefs.

 I was sailing on a mosaic of turquoise tiled water
 Creating cartographic maps, navigating through tunnels towards lighthouses
 This wasn't the limits of derivatives or vanishing points
 Stalled pendulums, a respite from erratic oscillations of clocks. 

 Our minute hands pushed back a couple of centuries 
 We were clothed with invisible vestments, within a void
 Encapsulated by a love trapped in a timeless existence.  
 
 She had always been defining dates, like
 Gregorian priests measuring years with a crude BC/AD timeline
 Not realtizing there were jagged edges to the contours of her landscape
 The weather beaten texture of the topography of her terrain.

 And when I laid garlands of wreaths and flowers
 With sepals and petals draped around her tombstone
 Her voice clanged against my ears, like plastic pitchforks
 Striking my metallic, resistant cables and streets
 Writing her my own epitaph: 
 My mother, calendar-dependent and devoid of conscience.

Birth sign: Not entered
Date created: 1998-01-04 09:37:05
Last updated: 2021-04-14 17:18:07
Poem ID: 48438

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