The Garland (1993)

Behind wrinkles her merry eyes twinkle,
Weaving the low-down string through jasmine;
And I to weave another tapestry – a travesty,
Weariness to be dust and the day’s disgust
From the armour well worn, of self-assertion.

The garland’s wrapped and it’s time for the parting chat.
For the expecting wife she prays, and me she praises-
To have each detail is her part till I depart.
A boy or a girl? A baby – the reply to please, maybe;
Of trying trivial troubles, of morals, money, mortals;
Ration, labour, savings, in-laws and to-be-siblings.
Forward she stretches, and closer attention she fetches:
“A grandchild! You are now man enough for them?
Your ancestors arrack-dealers, hers by royal stealers;
And now by no coconut grove or royalty, but in the ministry;
Do they now complain of the miscast match?”
Awhile in pregnant hush, I spot a blue scar she masks in a rush;
Queries are not for me to utter, of her mate she dare not mutter.

It’s time to part, and she nods at my pining heart;
And hands me the love-pack, the saviour from the rack-
A husband’s tensions of how to please; she mentions
Of how it differs, from those of early customers
For greedy monetary gods, and here to love, the God.

Here, at my walk’s endis the lover, father and husband;
The padlock never oiled creaking, the door never open, complaining;
To sit on the floor of cold stone, to count the moments alone,
The garland still in my clutch, dreams before decay are such.