A Creative Writing class exercise; an attempted poetic imitation of Mukerje. |
I cried as I wished my mother dead. She hugged me and held my head To her bosom. I instantly grew my own And I banked the pond of my tears with stone. Only innamable invertebrates lived in it. To look at myself, I decided to sit On Mother's bed in her dark bedroom And with pink-like candles, she lit the gloom. Our shadows danced and left a space For another shadow to take its place. When none showed, Mother's shadow sighed. She blew out the candle and sat as it died. And I sat trying to get a look at me. My mother then covered her skin thoroughly With oil, then she grew scales and crawled to sea. She gestured and I transformed, as had she. We stood together, arm in arm, face to face. Sighing, yet feeling strong, I grew a carapace. I had grown, but she would always be the bigger One. We walked southward and towards the sun, Leaving colonies of worms in our wake And she told me I looked miserable (For goodness sake!) And disappeared. So I dug a deep, deep hole. And built over it a floorless house, murder being my goal. "Take a look," I said; she laughed and walked all around inside. "It's excellent. I'd be honored to live in it," she replied. So I filled the hole and burnt the house to the ground. Anger gave way to fatigue; I found sleep, dreamless, sound. One day Mother set me on board a boat and walked away. I never in my life cried more than on that day. When I went to get off the boat, I found out This boat I was on was encased by a green bottle without. When it stopped, I recognized a woman with my feet To be my mother. As we talked, our union grew complete. As we walked through her house, I knew of events That had taken place there. No longer tense, I--and she--find the the house a beautiful one which we decide to share. We shall enter the final stage of our evolution there. We watch the fishermen return with their catch. (Mother's seen to that.) I am sitting on her enormous lap. From her hair, she made for me a mat. A hummingbird nests on my stomach, a sign I can bear fruit. Around us now are sights and sounds of newly-arrived youth. |