wrap me in its antique embrace until
I remembered days no longer there
when the wood was new and polished
by an old deft hand. My grandfather sat on you
so proud, patriarch and head.
He is dead.
His father too sat on you, tall as a
sahib, friend of the sahib
but actually a secret enemy.
His busy mind hatched a thousand plans
and his exquisite learning made him quote
a thousand shlokas- he gripped your arm
like one does an old comrade,
for you were his friend.
Those days too
are at an end.
Mahogany, your smell arose at midnight,
like a secret lover. Often I would creep
down and stroke you lovingly.
Generations past, yours was the
smell of time.
I smelt you, and loved.
I could have had you in my arms
but you had me in your arms
All the rest are dead.
I gave birth to a child and she nestled
in your lap. Sometimes she would see the world
an insignificant speck on you
large, magnificent, antique.
And her eyes would fill with
But now they have taken you from me
Into the patrilineal possession
My feminine heart craves sympathy
and the erotic yet soothing smell
of old mahogany. My father, my lover, my
child, my friend.
You were the symbol
of all that I cared for.
Though a chair
you stood for time.
I forgot me
You taught me
What it was to be human.