Nithya
You notice her slogging, body worn
by years of care.
She looks like her mother now.
You look like your father.
With his likeness and afflictions.
born with beautiful eyes you see words, the
spaces
between
them
the lips, the gulps of lying throats
a naturalized soothsayer.
Your brain is wine, older than the grape
it was born from.
The vintners like you.
time’s done its cruel thing
it is and it has
the weight of three people and a saint
their deeds and memories lining your womb
You decide to cull it,
gently
the best way
to be
is not
there will be no witnesses
to this story.
Reading into Culture 