Lines
- Priya Narayanan (India)
I
open my fist one last time
and
stare at the fine lines
that
lay concealed,
embedded
into the story of me.
One
line traverses the village
(of
memories)
where
I stand at the edge of a lotus pond
gazing
at my reflection: a child
amidst
entangled roots.
One
line meanders through the alleyways of a city
where
life and livelihood sit
at
the far ends of an ebony bench
and
I sit somewhere in between –
shifting,
shuffling, suspended in motion.
One
line curves round the corner called love:
you
do not need to see to know
what
happens beyond. A pregnant sigh
escapes
me. One line unspools
into
a long string that flies a kite.
The
wind that makes the kite dance
is
my breath. As I inhale and exhale
exhale
and inhale, a thousand other strings
unspool
to criss-cross the sky
above
my open palm. But these strings
do
not bear kites; they bear bluebirds
tied
by their tails: tweeting, tittering,
teetering,
tiring.
A
thing of beauty loses its freedom for ever.
One
line traces the outline of a slate.
I
can see a line forming a ‘C’, yet another
forms
an ‘I’. A few drunken lines collide
to
form an ‘A’ and an ‘R’. A fine threesome
forms
an ‘H’… I pull out a chair
and
sit down my weary bones.
As
the lines close in on me, I open
my
tired eyes just in time to catch one line
rushing across my palm:
a
river in a hurry to meet the sea.