Let's not skip Homely Lunches
They hold a peculiar connection, the family and the child.
The motherly influence of searing culture and restraint;
in contrast, the otherworldly, grotesque imbecility of a child:
faring out of reach of any article that shall bid an odd
to defile this early-identity, of malleability amidst the inevitable rise.
Some revel in eclipse, while the youths of late-August,
and of late-July, watch as anguish upsurges—
“A tide!”
“It reach for us along with a searing downpour,
it infest our skin with salt and plague,
it leave no remaining limbs to our avail,
it bring them along into the pond…”
Heads back the wave.
“They remain apart, no limbs adhere to command…”
I’d heard from a weaver, made to live by the sea, and weave-away time:
the craft now lost, to time, prejudice, and neglect; then earned him a dime.
“...now indulged fully in corruption of the previous tide.”
Not many know the anguish of man,
when a limb departs after serving for two decades and half.
When it starts to perish into the dark,
the shoulder anchors its best to the lover in sight;
to the man, an alien and obscure manifest of powers—
a weightless void, in place of bones and flesh
had now assumed office, and commanded space.
The eclipse had now come to subside,
the sun came to flare heat of its own misery, and put poor-rodents to death.
The relation, grows perpetually more obscure for the kinsman,
“see it grow, and chase light—‘go on, touch the sky’”;
except the air shrills when the parent in-charge is berated by the elder.
What is there now left unsaid, all negligence has crested,
and it plummeted…“the access of control, the hubris of dignity, and the worst of all—
I lose the right to impose control upon my own child!”
It must’ve been a treacherous path to scrape that far behind,
buried in the remotest recesses of mind,
the memory of this event…“it came as bittersweet, to revoke the last strands
of this superficial right, to demolish the last standing pillar of kinship, and—”
to call home upon a desolate land, atop the debris,
“over the moral right”, upon the facet of home, of origin, and birth.
In monotony, now, I wished for the plague to upsurge a tide,
an eclipse to put a veil on the sun, give me a moment’s rest.
Familial purpose once abandoned, had to be compensated by a conquest,
to seek another meaning: infer, develop and think for where
to put the next step forward, and find in mud, a traversable platform.
“Eclipse falls next year…”
Meanwhile, before the impending doom falls,
let’s not skip homely lunches, for colleagues, or to feel ashamed,
or to create room for the plague to leave a stain, infest the iris with frost.
“We’re standing out!”, give way for grievances to pass, let them count,
they have a decade-long story to preach, and become subject to erasure,
as they make way for the primordial soul, the oceanic experience,
“whatever it is, it ought to be better than this.”