The Gift
Passed on
From parent to child
From parent to child
Bequeathed without a will
With no policy for an exchange
Or return
Unasked for

The gift of inheritance-
I’m haunted by it. I live on the crater.
The spectre of an eruption looms large;
I keep vigil.
Checking for the smallest signs,
bumps on my body’s terrain.
I think a lapse in memory-

forgetting you will do the trick.
But genes, like GPS, don’t need direction to drive them home.
I see their reflection in the mirror- your eyes, your smile.
I’m tormented, by my ability
to pass it on (like it or not),
And the gnawing fear
that I, too, shall be blamed.

Burgundy
Burgundy, the colour of the dress I wore on my wedding day
My Christian friend walked beside me in red,
the colour of marriage in my religion.
Burgundy, the colour of the lipstick I donned in college;
I was counted amongst the ‘fair’ girls.
It took time getting used to
having been called a ‘brown cookie’
by my mother’s side of the family
for as long as I can remember.

Burgundy, the colour of my child’s blood
in vials,
One by one, they filled four for testing
while I held her podgy little hand in mine,
and watched her smile through my teary eyes.
Burgundy, the colour of wine we sipped in Chianti
Of beets
And pomegranates, impatient me, peeled for mom.
She said, ‘You do it so patiently,’ her face pale and kind.

Little did she know that I said a prayer for her
with each seed I shelled.
Burgundy, the name of the building
in which we bought our first home.
And the colour of the kurta my husband wore
on the first Diwali in our home-
the sparks from the phuljadis made his face glow
against the night sky. Burgundy, the colour of cherries
we got at the Farmer’s market in Germany-

We paid for strawberries; the cherries came free.
They tasted sweeter.
Burgundy, the colour of daisies in the vase
on my bedside table, the one I look at as I lie awake
my head nestled in my husband’s shoulder.
Burgundy, the colour of passion, of lust, of hunger
And the colour of the clot on my skin
where the needle went through to suck my tissue out.
‘Don’t move,’ the doctor said, ‘I need 20 mm for testing.’

Burgundy, the colour of my rapidly beating heart
as I clicked open the email marked, ‘Lab report’
while the lady at the salon dyed my hair, burgundy.

Alive
The hospital’s waiting room, a nave,
teems with others, like me.
I see in their eyes
What they see in mine.

Humbled, we wait at the pew,
Lips voicing silent prayers
A rosary of beaded fears
Loosely links all gathered.

Someone smiles. I smile back.
A momentary exchange
Disappears as quickly as it came
In deference

Of the hand above.
I feel Fear, whom I held close
push with all its might
against my ribcage. Something snaps.

It gushes out
Letting go of me
I breathe
Free. Alive.

You can learn more about Smitha by clicking on her bio: https://thievingmagpie.org/smitha-vishwanath-bio-3/