Things My Mother Left

From my Mother
I inherited a box.

It had her troubled childhood
Stacked in countless diaries.

A dusty scarf from her youth
That still had its faint perfume
Of a summer day and rejected love.

A bell jar full of dead fireflies
And a broken marriage.
A route map to her sorrow.
And dried leaves from our backyard
To remind her of the spring.

A monument for her motherhood
Built with bricks of guilt.

A postcard of her old age
That said, 'Love, Your Daughter'
With patterns of tears made on ink
As she strained to remember my name.

And at the bottom
A will that said 'I Love You, Dear'
Staggering and misspelt.

While Waiting

When the dust settles down with the lights
And little boys fly their kites
On the rooftops nearby,
I'll stand by the parapets
With grit that'll stick to my arm as I press.

I'll look at the orange marigolds
That has drooped with the heat of day
And think of that afternoon you were here.

With hands that bleed
A life in vain
Clad in unformed dreams
And a forced matrimony,
I kissed your lips
That stained of sin
And licked your tongue
That tasted of lust.

I kissed you on this rooftop
With the smell of marigolds in the wind
Away from my husband
Until I felt my son stir inside my body
And I shuddered in guilt.
I'll never forget how your eyes looked then.

I'll think of you today,
Until all the lights are out
And the scent of these flowers fill my lung
Until my son pulls the pleats of my sari.

I'll think of one last thing  to ask you
Before I pick him up and kiss his head,
What would you call us?
Sinners?
Divine?