curtains of desire

curt.jpgThe helm of my mother’s saree,
the waning and waxing of her skirt,
grandmother combing her grey wired
mythic tales into meaningful combinations,
pickled petticoat
discoloured with history,

the comings and the goings
the cruising along their fenced orchard,
under gulmohar sky in April’s explosive red
“breeding lilacs out of the dead land”
in December; burning memories
of deserted lovers in autumn;

anchored on the same spot
growing into a thin curtain
in rootless fluttering,
rootless suffering;

like a window
letting it come
letting it go

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