mother

my mother
a recreational collector
she collects
poly bags,
plastic bottles,
traumas,
and at last her shattered self.

a kitchen cabinet
has been stuffed with
an overlooked pile of translucent
polymer bags,
ropes, and
empty mineral water bottles.
perhaps,
the rubbish pile reminds her of my childhood -
the fading memories
and her other progenies
whom
she couldn’t keep close.
they had to be weaned off comfort.

not her children but at least,
she’s got her bags and bottles at one place.

at some point in our lives,
we knew each other better
than ourselves.
in my mind,
her patterns were engraved;
the way she’d say my name
was the clue to her following sentence.

we were experiences -
consciousness magic -
an evolutionary miracle
wherein
the creation and the creator had
admired each other
for some moments
before she got old and wrinkled
and i - estranged.