Sujatha Menon
COUSINS
It has a colossal trunk,
dry-wrinkled and crusty baked;
so old, the cracks are aged
with the royal pelt
of moss and lichen.
My elephantine tree
swings wild in the wind
and I am blown
into the Motherland
on the back of a
blue-billed bird
that rides on the tusk
of this wise mammal’s head.
My skin still feels England;
a wetsuit, shy and clinging
but it won’t save me from the heat
under the cotton trees or the
coconut that might split my skull.
It is a thin layer of rubber
that separates you from me.
Me trapped on the inside,
you repelled on the outside,
a dark impermeable membrane
that stretches for miles
but could easily rip raw
when we smell the jasmine in the Malabar breeze,
see the baby elephant queuing in the traffic,
hear the ring of the temple bell by the sea,
feel the first drop of monsoon after the relentless fire,
and devour the mangos
we both call home.
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© Sujatha Menon 2021