By: Kashiana Singh

In the image of my mother

I can bask in the sunshine of

of watching my mother halt

her day—

after she was done carving

meaning into our lives

as she etched our days

with syntax

of lunch boxes

with storytelling

under whirring fans

with petulant warmth

of a fresh casserole

with newly learned

dessert platters, sweet

with nights offered on

her lap, birth scents

with lessons crafted

from filigree of aches

with mystery found

in garnet drops, shapely

with clicking tic tac

of long knitting needles

with bookshelves

encased in first words

I remember relishing a few moments

of crying into her diaphragm

listening—

her voice a clasp around our lives

her hair swirled in a prosaic bun

shaped like a cloud, introspecting

she came alive, play-acting scenes

from famous silent movies

I half remember relishing her voice

sashaying into our bland rooms as

it hummed, sang, scolded or stayed

just stayed. silently.

I indulge, in remnants of her fading image

palpable, the pot boils over as if rebuking

me, I roll up my

hair into a rare bun

her syllables inhabiting me

from an unnamed distance.

 

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About the author: When Kashiana is not writing, she lives to embody her TEDx talk theme of Work as Worship into her every day. She currently serves as Managing Editor for Poets Reading the News. Her newest full-length collection, Woman by the Door is coming out in 2022 with Apprentice House Press.