By Drishti Kedia
Bury my grief within my body,
parts of which are parts of my mother,
so to say, my mother's grief is my grief,
and mine, mine.
It's a story so old,
magic mirrors and sad sunsets,
a lifetime for her, a moment for me.
And mother, your daughter is bleeding
and you refuse to believe it's yours
and you abandon poetry in a pond with prose.
Autumn falls and
my tongue forgets
the language it sings in,
and the birds forget their
way home.
They tell me it'll be gone in a couple months,
but oh my love, don't you think
this night's too long?
Call me a non-believer
but my heart's praying
for light and love,
off a haunted house if it may be.
It's a house, a home, regardless.
The ghost of a mother that my mother never was haunts me every waking moment.
The prose finally swallows up the poem, and the pond swallows up the prose.
What's left is the still after the storm, a corpse of grief so heavy, it's washed ashore at my childhood home.
Maybe all I am
is a funeral
of who I am.
By Drishti Kedia
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