I wake up and write a poem to you.
Like infants wait for their mother’s lap
after a long sleep.

This poem begins with a whisper,
your numb ears lose the words of my silence
my voice travels through the air
striking the clock at the wall.
It’s midnight.
The day has been changed.
The stanza too.

In the middle of this poem
I ask you for a story,
while laying on my barren spine.
The lamp flickers,
we walk to another room
changing characters.

Sameera,
There was a man who had two parrots.
He used to doubt that they will fly away
if he opens the cage.
With this fear he lived for many years
before concluding that he must get rid of this.
So one day, he opened the gate of the bronze cage
and went to sleep.
When he came back
the parrots were still there,
drinking water and leftover rice.
Rejoicing at the moment the man died.

Why are your stories always tragic?
They aren’t.

In the concluding stanza
you tell me
that parrots were not loyal to the man
but rather their capability to fly was lost.
Wings like love are of no use
if you are suspicious of the loyalty.

Will you lose your ability to fly if I hold you for long?

In this poem we meet at the end
when readers are rejoicing in the afterglow
of the burning metaphor,
their rooms filled with an inconsolable laughter.
Who writes such a poem? We walk back to the room,
it’s the second last line of the poem
here I cradle in your arms
but you don’t call me a spoilt kid.

This poem ends with the reader closing the book.
we walk back to our room
drinking the afternoon tea.
This poem dies.

Are we loyal to each other or our ability to fly has been reduced?

©Sameera Mansuri 2020.NaPoWriMo Day 7