Young Writers Society

on the shore,

    broken bottles. my mother

spinning whispers from sea-foam,

listen:

my mother and her mother before her,

     our grandmothers and their grandmothers,

never forget. love is a scar they wear

       on their wrists, above their veins.

spin sea-foam from whispers,

      send broken bottles to uncertain lands.

listen:

        my mother and her mother before her,

our grandmothers and their grandmothers,

     tell me love is the mist that hangs like

a bride’s veil, the mist that hangs

      in a woman’s throat.

listen:

     in india a bride wears a red veil, because

red, they say, is the colour of life.

      trace henna in their hands: oceans and waves,

ripples and below it all, love:

     red mist, scar like a jewellery strung across our

veins.

my mother and her mother before her,

our grandmothers and their grandmothers,

never forget: love

      the mist that hangs in their throats,

sing:

      the mist that births whispers,

sea-foam-

     by the shore, we send

our songs in bottles to the sea,

listen, listen:

they come back broken,

           again

and again

      and again.