Every mother is a complex narrative-
a story within a story within a story.
A gnarled tomato growing in the garden, hard stalks and soft skin.
A solute not courageous enough to form a solution.
A mirror mouth in height of wails.
A tamarind skin covered in honey.
A useless deity.
Earthquakes happens whenever 
a daughter looks at her mother_
A tremor lying on the floor covered in rumbles and blood.
There is confusion, realizing it is 
the same name going to be written in different syllables.
Like a soft curse. 
Like the mouth of a shark.
Like a gun fully loaded and put in mouth.
Mothers, as they are taught to be,
take away the breath of their daughters and gives back a throat 
graciously, out of kindness.
They watch their daughters with eyes of a cat, their little cruel paws always cleaned inorder to hurt. 
They are flooding canons themselves, who makes their daughters to drown in a glass of water.
They are oxymorons, hardened like a tumour, moving in straight lines, while their knuckles are unmarked graves.
They are eyes of an owl on a summer noon, slowly blending into the silent sirens of a  red factory. 
This is why daughters wonder:
Is this the hand that saves or the hands that strangles?
Why gifting the fire- to be warm or to burn ?
Why putting a sun in the socks-
To be bloomed or melted?

Every father checks dates of a torn calender waiting for the
ripening of  their glory and
in the evenings they open 
the doors of their anger.
A voice lended to weeping trees of monsoon at the time of birth.
A lonely mushroom in the forest afraid of a rabbit's soft kiss.
A self proclaimed god.
When a daughter talks to her father, she turns into a strawberry that chop itself.
There is blood treated as juice, conveniently avoided out of habit.
Like a missing blind goat.
Like an egg which tastes like a slap. 
Like a knife found inside the lungs.
Fathers, as they have studied, 
make daughters the song sticked inside a taxi cab on a monsoon day, and opens the window only to spit their phlegm, a brutal love.
They move away from their daughters afraid to hear 
themselves in those petty girls, 
an echo to be avoided.
They are worried notes themselves, who wants their daughters to be 
a piece of art in an ancient museum.
They are hyperboles, the gods wrath, moving in circles, while their laughs are glassine squares.
They are strange guests, with soft footprints, drawing territorial borders of what they love and hate.
This is why daughters wonder:
Is this the shadow of an icecream or of a dagger?
Is that a smile or a hole on the skin?
Why recalling a distant memory to punish or to laugh?

Daughters,
move in false wings,
gentle as a a mother's tear, 
strong as a father's fist,
counting bones in their tongues.

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