Origami Microchap

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Cover art by author

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Sparrows

I remember how the other children
were greeted after school—with
eager arms and the floral caresses
of their doting mothers. I have tried
in vain to unearth such memories
of your coddling touch.

But I remember you at the window,
looking out at the dunes
as an irate sun seethed
in a cloudless sky—solar storms seemed
to brew in the mirage as sparrows
flew in, wilting, panting for shade. And you,
with benign eyes, water bowl in hand, waited
to smooth their burning feathers,
embracing the anguished mounds
of their flame-charred bodies—
a mother to their thirsty hearts.

Atlas rising

Years drift and unknown to us
our roles reverse.
The friction burns of words heal,
barbs are plucked—all droplets
of venom bled out and drained.

You pass the mantle on—
I bow and receive it.
My once straw shoulders
now buttressed with steel,
I have returned—
metamorphosis complete,
to be Atlas to you—
to roll the earth off
the cluster bruises
stamped on your clavicle,
to relieve you
of its unjust tonnage.

Sun Seekers

It was futile to try to convince you
back then—daughters who discover
the light just cannot stay.
Leaving the cavern is inevitable.

They will crouch at the mouth of the void,
shuddering, clinging to the warmth
of newfound beams, unable to meld
with darkness again. And their mothers
will droop in shame at the mutineers
they have birthed—a silence clamping
their punctured psyches.

But cracks appear and vaults crumble
and time leads mothers out of caves too,
to the halo of a benevolent sun,
lingering outside.
This is all I ever wanted for you.
Back then, craving freedom felt taboo.
But I have ruptured the yoke.
Now I will shatter the pins
that hold your shackles too.

Silk

We bunch old tussore in our palms—
mottled threads of matriarchs past,
savor their folds—opulent kisses
on the paisley moons of our bodies.
Brocade borders flap,
dainty mirror-work twinkles
with motifs of brave journeys,
and we marvel at the contrast
in the filaments of our sinews—
we of the chenille weave, toughened
on bolder looms, our furious shuttles
spinning destinies of our own design.
And we surge, rising on the ramparts
of our foremother’s tears—
they, of the wordless lips,
proudly watching us line
our feisty, intrepid bones
in hues of antique strands—
rich armor of defiant silk.

Lines

The women in your family get to keep
their youthful faces for longer—
unlined by time, the oval artistry
of their jaws unsullied,
the inevitable squaring
of drifting bones, infinitely delayed.
But nature runs a silver wand
early over your raven ringlets,
bestowing new tungsten-tinged beauty.

Though born of you, I evolve into
a different creature, crossing
my fourth decade, still sporting
a black mane—just like father did,
but with deep crow’s feet
emerging like his, laugh lines
printing heavy furrows,
with cumulative smiles.

And you and I, we stand,
like who we were at my birth,
still smiling in dissimilar mirrors,
still searching for elusive lines
to connect.

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Oormila Vijayakrishnan Prahlad © 2022

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Cover art by author

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Aquiline

I watch my beautiful son as he sleeps,
baptized in starlight. Like me,
he has my father’s face - blueprints
of angular features.

I turn off his night lamp, put away
his book, smooth down the duvet
with its cartoon geckos, all the while
smiling at the contours of his nose -
unique. Like father’s.
Like mine. Aquiline.

When I look up at the panes,
my profile glitches, and letters form
in the fog, in the cruel cursive
of the boy who scrawled Pinocchio,
on the back of my school bag for a laugh.

How I believed it, back then.

Big decisions at seven

At the used car dealership, dad shortlists
three rides, telling the bored salesman
that now it’s entirely up to his daughter.

I strike a pose, arms crossed, self-important
boss lady with missing front teeth, and like
choosing an ice cream flavor, pick the big
mocha-maroon Impala Chevrolet ‘84.

The highway is alive with brittlebush and
mountain fleece. Dad grips the wheel,
beaming like an invincible demigod.

We thunder home in the dust -
the undertones of the chassis trailing
the musk-rose of the skies.

Heirloom

I feel like a queen every time
I’m draped in my grandmother’s saree -
its foam of tassels and spangles,
beads and bells on its silver brocade
seeming to take flight, chittering
like starlings in the wind.

Mother wore it for years before
passing it down to me - I remember
how it looked like fairy dust on her.

Now I proudly drape it,
many oceans away, all motley six yards,
transforming into a peacock
on my evening walk, lapping up
the surprise in strangers’ eyes,
the knowing smiles
as the sun glints off its jewels,
illuminating an heirloom -
four score years of motherly love.

Berry season

When the July sky
is burnished tin,
We shall harvest
mulberry pearls.

We shall whisper
aromatic spells,
red-velvet tints
glazing our lips.

Downy spherules
will weep rivers
fuchsia-magenta
a metamorphosis,
our tongues tart,
trilling summer.

(First published in 'The Minison Project' 2021)

Winter ‘98

After Mary Oliver

When I wake up, I decide to
make peace with the burrs that
have returned to germinate.

I stop dwelling on the kisses I miss,
the absence of firm scaffoldings.

A threadbare version of me floats in and I
allow it to fold its wasted wings,
and fall asleep upon my ribs.

I embrace this mangled twin.

Years later I will look back and know
that this too
was a gift.

Filigree

It’s another autumn afternoon
at my daughter’s flute lesson.
Sunlight seeps through leadlight panels
as she appears to float in a kaleidoscope -
my caramel angel with her silver wand,
breath purling through the pews,
taut melodies stretched beyond
her usual capacity.

She conjures notes from far below
her diaphragm, phrases rising and
slicing the air like pelicans,
her Bach ringing crystalline, as her lips
curl the perfect embouchure,
and the cathedral flowers, catching
the filigree of sunbeams
filtering through stained glass -
the passion of the Christ
crowning around
her cinnamon hair.

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Oormila Vijayakrishnan Prahlad © 2021

in twenty steep steps

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Cover: ‘Angel in Flight’
mixed media piece by author

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In twenty steep steps

at the foot of the stairs to the library
she struggles with a bag of books
bent double near the lowest stair
tapping the granite
with her walking stick

I approach her and offer to help
as she studies me with beryl-blue eyes
her face lighting up with smiles
and holding my hand like a valued friend
we climb the steps at turtle pace

step one

she tells me about a Budapest morning
her mother with suitcases packed
a ship from Greece, a protracted journey
reams of sea for days and nights
till landfall at Australia many months later

step five

her middle-aged children live far away
their English so different from hers, she laughs
she says she knows about my country of birth
from stories in the history books -
about a river called the Holy Ganges

step eight

I tell her the myth of the sacred waterway -
a Goddess’ descent from the heavens
flowing down in a torrent
a blue God breaking the force of the water
through the filter of his matted locks

step fifteen

I tell her about a necklace of mountains
the pendants of its highest peaks
plains and deserts
and veins of streams
varied tongues, mosaics of people

step eighteen

her grip around my wrist tightens
and we pause to breathe
beneath the vault of skyscrapers -
so different from that quaint town
of her girlhood days, she whispers

step twenty

at the library door I bid goodbye
as she pats my cheek and squeezes my hand
and handing her the bag of books
I leave, thinking of our exchange
of faraway lands, adopted homes
journeys, rivers, language and people -
two strangers bonding in twenty steep steps
not even knowing each other's names.

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Oormila Vijayakrishnan Prahlad © 2020