Of Mother, Among Other Things

Of Mother, Among Other Things

- A.K. Ramanujan

I smell upon this twisted blackbone tree
the silk and whitepetal of my mother's youth.
From her earrings three diamonds

splash a handful of needles,
and I see my mother run back
from rain to the crying cradles.
The rains tack and sew

with broken threads the rags
of the tree tasselled light.
But her hands are a wet eagle's
two black- pink crinkled feet,

one talon crippled in a garden-
trap set for a mouse. Her saris
do not cling: they hang, loose
feather of a one time wing.

My cold parchment tongue licks bark
in the mouth when I see her four
still sensible fingers slowly flex
to pick a grain of rice from the kitchen floor.