My eyes lay burning
Buried in the sockets leading to
synapses of a thousand other sisters
We smell of garlic, laundry and tears
of our children, parents and friends.
And yet you won’t shy away your chance from us.
It takes a long, deep breath,
(even more than that),
to summate how we still claw through the mud
with our small fingernails (thrice harder than you)
to reach our graves and yet find a shallower one.
My hands are wrinkled and scarred,
like a thousand other sisters of mine.
From the history of meals we have cooked and served to
tender caresses for the aching heart we have given.
We become your wives, and safeguard your souls
from lack, lax and lassitude
Metaphorically becoming the pole on which you
pitch your tent.
Home, hearth, warmth and light we bring,
Thunder, lightning and rainstorms too.
You call us a misery and
Still pine for this agony
in every sleepless night and dreaming day,
Oh yes, you do! (You know that)
My waist is no longer mine,
And a thousand other sisters would echo too.
Bearing your blood, giving birth to your time
A life to your dreams, the hope in your joy
Nurturing while we run on nothing, giving while we get emptied
And it is a testament of happiness to us.
Lines and scars and loose skin but a souvenir of
A promise we once made for you.
Until you move to a new land with fresh perspectives
and similar but parched promises.
My voice is no longer mine,
And a thousand other sisters will agree too.
Because you sound loud and wish to keep it that way
And we know even though you talk
We will be walking your plans (or over them)
To oil the cogwheels
For the world to run and have a peaceful
night of sleep,
Just like how we tuck you and your children to bed
Safe and sound with a night full of relieved snores,
While we close our eyes the last
And open them the first, letting them burn
To light another day of our lives.