My birth changed
my mothers constitution, tinted
her hues as stains. Garbled
her language to nuisance,
the sound
as paper tearing between gears.
For the first years it was her
face my demons brought
forth to me,
the colony calling her
stranger
myself turning with it
till even my own name jumped
like uncooked rice in my mouth, teeth aching
to parse syllables
*
A dhaga blooms
from my forehead, I forget
it’s there sometimes.
In crowds, its silent pulling
from my belly guides
my eyes to women that look
like my mother.
I search
their faces, waiting
to see the eyes that I keep
closed peering back at me.
I hear them say my name correctly. A sound like watching your lover enter a house from a distance, their familiar stride yet unknowing of you, primordial
I’ll plant myself like tulsi at the center of that house, Vishnu in her most patient form.