Twenty Years Down the Lane

Twenty years down the lane
cobwebs wrapped in my tongue
red broken nails gnawing at
the sylvan table, the pressure cooker
whistles, the fading black ink of the recipe book spites at me, scratching the metaphors sealing my white lips
water bickering down the sink, flushing away the stale desires
mellow sun rays forming shadows
out of the roses in porch, Gelsomina
on Sunday in her kitchen whisking the cream, husband and children’s chattering and squabbling lulled by Ella’s voice
honey, “𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘱𝘰𝘵𝘢𝘵𝘰𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘪𝘴𝘩!!!!”
A wry smile and a few tears drenched in years of silence, red hues of sunset sucking the gnarls of the mango tree
Brinda,” 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘴𝘶𝘭𝘬, 𝘐’𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘪𝘯 𝘯𝘰 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦, 𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘣𝘦𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘬𝘦𝘵 ?”
”𝗦𝗾𝘂𝗲𝗲𝘇𝗲 𝗺𝗲/𝗕𝘂𝘁 𝗽𝗹𝗲𝗮𝘀𝗲 𝗱𝗼𝗻’𝘁 𝘁𝗲𝗮𝘀𝗲 𝗺𝗲’
black block heels striding across the alleys, city of joy’s love soaked dreams incites quandary of gen z hamlets, ecstasy languishing in bulging superficial veins,
a lump in my throat, wrinkled hands forages for fresh apples, malnourished children laughs in their paltry existence, starving women walking barefoot amidst blinding headlights, cars honking,
“𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘬”, abhoring patience twitches my thumb, horizontal and vertical saccades of weary eyeballs gawping at the nicotine stained lips of a stranger
Mother, “only cookies and tea!!!!!”
memories stapled with ceaseless unanswered questions chuckles, birds singing in the sycamore tree
Dip,”𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘴 𝘢 𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘱 𝘥𝘳𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘪𝘯 𝘴𝘦𝘢, 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘦 𝘳𝘶𝘯𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘢𝘮𝘱 𝘰𝘪𝘭?”
‘𝗠𝗶𝘀𝘀𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘀𝗶𝗻𝗰𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘄𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝗮𝘄𝗮𝘆/ 𝗦𝗶𝗻𝗴𝗶𝗻’𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗯𝗹𝘂𝗲𝘀 𝗮𝘄𝗮𝘆 𝗲𝗮𝗰𝗵 𝗱𝗮𝘆’

Twenty years down the lane
sauntering across narrow streets of
cobblestone, shafts of golden light glazed in Rilke’s “𝘴𝘭𝘶𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 “of April
wraps up my bosom, a gushing warmth
pierces through the white under my skin
Sliced chicken breasts marinated with
ginger garlic paste, agony disguised as gluttony tastes sour, Miller’s Magda in her lilac dress turns on the knobs of gas stove, dense white smoke, banging on the door
Brinda, “𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘭𝘪𝘮𝘢𝘹 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘺 𝘧𝘪𝘭𝘮, 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘬𝘦𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘴?”
Coffee stained bedsheets rinsed in old summer fragrances of Fellini’s Italy, verbose of a mad man induces Freudian slips
‘𝗖𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗻𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁𝘀 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘄𝗮𝗶𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝘆𝗼𝘂’
in creases of my palm appears a fuzzy six lettered word, the wars have burnt alive faiths, people have stopped
buying dry promises from the flea market of life, parched throats no longer
longs for drinks, cacophonies of slogans boiling conscience, glances of those same pair of pensive eyes, “𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘦?” fervid jazz drumbeats of twenty two autumns back resurfaces hollowing the marrow out of my bones, roaring dark clouds, honey,”𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘱𝘢𝘬𝘰𝘳𝘢𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘤𝘩𝘶𝘵𝘯𝘦𝘺!!!”
Mother, “𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘳𝘺!!!!”
Yellow blemishes on the red apron, mumbled groaning, Dip, “𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘢 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘺𝘦𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘦𝘷𝘰𝘶𝘳, 𝘢𝘮 𝘐 𝘳𝘶𝘯𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘰𝘧 colours 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦(𝘺𝘰𝘶)?”
‘𝗜’𝗺 𝗶𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗺𝗼𝗼𝗱 𝘁𝗼 𝗹𝗲𝘁 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗸𝗻𝗼𝘄/ 𝗜 𝗻𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿 𝗸𝗻𝗲𝘄 𝗜 𝗹𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗱 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘀𝗼’