Ideas

(After Heather Cadenhead)

My mother sifts through ideas

as if they are a box of old clothes--

mostly discardable, but one or two

might be still salvaged: darned,        

patched, folded, unfolded

to wear many times more.

She cannot let them go,

since parsimony is supposed to be

a cardinal virtue of womanhood.

But mostly, she stacks them

in the corners of the closet--

like old textbooks. Once relevant.

But now just taking up space. Unneeded

at best.

Within this sansar-named

well-woven fabric, each

thread with its own distinct

hand movement—chopping

an onion, ironing a shirt, stirring

a stew pot, tying her daughter's hair--

ideas are like spiteful needles.

Prick-sharp. Threatening to single out

the  little stitches, one by one,

and examining them  too

closely. Promising an unfurling

of the whole before the fingers

holding the needle realize it

fully themselves.

I, on the other hand, during

the days of early youth, wore

ideas like new silk scarves.

My ma didn't necessarily object.

Wasn't I destined to do what she couldn't?

Now that I spit them out on my palm,

let them dry, crush them into dust,

and adsorb them into my pores,

my mother and I are running out

of things to talk about amongst ourselves.

©Nandini Dhar