Ode To Terraces

This is not an ode. At least,

not in the proper sense of the term.

This is also not about terraces.

This is about the girls

who, even when they try

to escape their mothers' quick slaps

avoid attics

especially

those of madwomen

They look for something

bluer

higher

closer

to coconut leaves

shaking in air

They bend their waists

to listen

without being seen

They draw maps

small enough

to fit on pebbles

They decipher,

while watching

the humming-bird

skirt the brick wall,

that mothers slap

only those they deem

harmless enough

to hope for

Terraces

come handy

because

they administer

expanse

iron-railings stained

by rain

respite

yellow light of the sun

converted

into silhouettes

by leaves

and vines

in the same way

mothers

apportion  mourning

shaped into myth

most of all,

they are

brick railings

against which

these girls

can break

the gold-colored crayons

in two

without

letting

their afflictions

lighten the colors

of their skins

which

tends to happen

inside

attics

That  is

not surprising

since attics

can open

into terraces

This is not an ode. At least,

not in the proper sense of the term.

This is also not about terraces.

This is about the girls

who, even when they try

to escape their mothers'

quick slaps,

avoid attics

especially

those of madwomen

©Nandini Dhar