Poetry

How a Mother Ages

by Sushma A. Singh

In bits, in steps
 heavy with things
named-unnamed; her tender
 tilt on a twirling earth.

In the lake
of her aura, with light
 and shadow
 unfolding their rhythm.

In the little hours
clocking a bottle
       mouth sky, nicked
     with    stars.

In dolls...
not opening-
       shutting    their
               hooded eyes.

In the grasp,
her hand slipping often,
to reach
   over your head as
the splayed wing
of   a   guard bird.  

In season-         
 sipped skin — satin, your
 baby finger tips
 skimmed — rippled
 to sandstone,
stringing her together.

In the curl of
your arms,   how
her sagging heartbeat
fills like hymns in
the temple air — the pockets
     inside     of you.

Appeared in Issue Spring '24