To My Mother

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To my Mother,

Who sometimes drives her rage towards me,

Into a penance of complete silence,

And coexists in a universe of unuttered syllables and incomplete sentences,

Strained dormancy and unspoken babble,

Glances emanating from the corners of her eye,

Splitting her universe from mine,

Each existing a few metres of each other,

Running our daily customs in pretence and oblivion towards other’s existence,

Just civil strangers under the same roof,

Till our anger subsides.

(And leads to, banter about my food habits and my hair dyed bonkers,

Or the concern over the lack of length in my skirts.)

To my Mother, the wager of Cold War,

Using quiescence as weaponry and muted moments as ammunition,

Turning from a commander to a by-stander,

An aching reminder of a situation gone amiss,

Of the day that I did not really save,

Teaching me a lesson one quiet second at a time.

To my mother who doesn’t understand,

That silence is a language that is spoken,

When nothing is spoken and everything is spoken,

That silence takes years of practice and maybe no practice at all,

I’d take a moment to remind her that before my skin met air,

Silence was probably the first language,

Between her and me.

poetryWoman Gone Rogue