RAMANUJAN, A.K.
Of Mothers Among Other Things
I smell upon this twisted
blackbone tree the silk and white
petal of my mother's youth.
From her ear-rings 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 thread 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 onetime 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.