Adrija Chatterjee
I stand before the mirror
Watching the comb work itself upon
My hair.
Partitioning them in strands
That fall and fissure apart.
The teeth,
Of the comb press down upon the scalp
My medicated one
Not the one, victory borne
Out of the mother’s womb
And never meant to be kept alive.
I comb them down
Tracing its root
First the mother’s ebony to her mahogany
Till the last found
Whitewashes itself
In the two decade old dull blink
Staring out of my grandmother’s tube light.
The strands photocopied themselves
Into furthers of wispy tendons
Once straight till the afternoon
Grazed down
The meadow of my crown
Under the burnished strokes of tonsure.
I watch them, slip out
The clutches of tortoiseshell grip
Homogeneity, with a silver thrown around
In between.
Like the dropped P of psychedelic
Or the outdated K of a knock.
The floor, hungry of devouring
Hair, never enough to satiate with
Shine, jeers then entangle
My feet!
Slowly giving in
Sinking deeper than the brazen razor
Worked tireless
Upon the pile of dishevelled mane.
Squelches, boots and brush
Purging memories from my mother’s womb.
