My Mother
has started adding too much
water to her tea.
I don’t tell anyone
about the shame.
I do not
partake most days.
most days, i abandon
my body.
I soak the towels,
and I am sorry.
I say it is how it is.
my mother’s thoughts leave her like a baby blue bird, &
baby blue birds return at odd hours
and leave you
shaking. My mother says, of all the things she has lost
to men and to time and her beaten hands,
she still wishes she could make tea like her mother
her mother
who collects at the bottom
of our teacups. As a rule,
We only drink out of ashy teacups.
I write to you, father
it withers away.
I hold my lover’s hand,
and I am sorry. I don’t tell her
about the water, the salt. I have her tea.
we smile at each other; shiny kids again. she says
she hears the cups
falling on our roof and a baby cries in the kitchen
don’t move. We have our tea
And gulp our dry words
The doors shiver and she says,
Put the fire out Mija, the men are coming
Shrishti Khanna is an artist and poet based in India. She believes, as Audre Lorde wrote, that poetry is not a luxury—but a necessity. She hides in the poems she reads, hoping to be seen, and writes around a central sentiment that surfaces in themes of childhood, trauma, grief, women, motherhood, and the small showers we try to take every day. She believes everything else is made up—which is to say, everything is written down. You can find her on Instagram @shrishtii.khanna