{"id":12624,"date":"2024-11-26T19:41:06","date_gmt":"2024-11-26T18:41:06","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=12624"},"modified":"2024-11-26T20:43:02","modified_gmt":"2024-11-26T19:43:02","slug":"2-poems-16","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=12624","title":{"rendered":"2 poems"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"\"
Image: \u00a9 Manchester Museum, The University of Manchester<\/span><\/p>\n

This Sunday Morning<\/strong><\/span><\/p>\n

I watch you from the kitchen window, digging
in, reaching for the good earth, summer-baked in
suspended animation, knee-deep in love.\u00a0<\/p>\n

The kids are asking for Daddy, the dog needs
to pee, and the coffee has dribbled its last
drops into the pot \u2013 sediment settling
like dust on the windowsill, an hourglass sifting
time \u2013 but I know better than to drag you
into this day of taunting clocks and tired errands.\u00a0<\/p>\n

Hunched over your little purple delights, bent at the
knees, busy-bee, your whistles carry Dylan into the
wind. In the pluck and sow of earth-song, you weed out
your worries, unburdened by the weight of what-ifs
and should-haves, digging down, down, deeper.\u00a0<\/p>\n

The pressure cooker lets out a sharp whistle; the kitchen window,
veiled in fog, keeps you from me. I erase urgent circles into
the glass, its surface tense with hope, but you\u2019ve dug yourself
a deep, muddy hole, and the kids are asking for Daddy
again, and I am running out of ways to call you dead.\u00a0<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Roots<\/strong><\/span><\/p>\n

My fingers circle the clogged
drain, pulling out chunks of today\u2019s leftover
lunch. I plunge my hands into greasy
galaxies of oil and soap, scraping
and licking at traces of coffee grounds
and dried yolk, noxious vinegar-dressed
salad greens, pungent spice-infused
curries. I come up for air as bits of bone
picked and sucked clean float to the top
like the remnants of an acid-bathed body.<\/p>\n

If I squint my eyes to a narrow degree
I can wander back to the marshes \u2013
noodling for catfish with Ma. Heads down in
the hypoxic murky greens, we would reach
for a ripple in its depths as the weeds
tickled our fingers. We\u2019d make a day
out of it \u2013 the sun drying our clothes
salty and stiff on our backs as our prize
lay off to one side, grinning wide.<\/p>\n

I do as I\u2019m told now. Mop in hand,
armed and ready, I make the necessary
arrangements to surgically remove a
stain. Disciplined in yes sir yes ma\u2019am
<\/em>yesyesyes I will I am<\/em> \u2026 words cleansed off
me until I\u2019m all theirs; in mind, in
manner. Hunched over in an unsteady
squat, I follow their mud-lined boots from
doorway to hall to carpeted floor, picking
slurs off the ground before they stick.<\/p>\n

If I drop the act, settle to the ground
and cross one leg over the other, I could
feel Ma\u2019s calloused palms kneading
through my hair, unravelling knots with
the trained hands of a sailor. This will make
<\/em>your roots strong<\/em>, she\u2019d say, working
the oils into my saturated scalp. I could feel her
arms tire, her stories of childhood misdeeds
and adult misgivings slurring us both to sleep
as the long day slumped to a quiet close.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

____<\/p>\n

Taira Deshpande, a poet and aspiring fiction writer from New Delhi, pursued an MA in<\/em>
Creative Writing from the University of Manchester. Her poems touch upon themes of grief,<\/em>
the feminine body, and the natural world, often taking on a critical or self-reflective tone. Her<\/em>
interests also lie in eco-poetry, environmental writing, and narrative poetry. She has worked<\/em>
as a freelance editor and proofreader and is currently working on her first collection of<\/em>
poems. Her blog and other published work can be found on the following website –<\/em>
https:\/\/tairad.wixsite.com\/on-second-thought<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Image: \u00a9 Manchester Museum, The University of Manchester This Sunday Morning I watch you from the kitchen window, digging in, reaching for the good earth, summer-baked in suspended animation, knee-deep in love.\u00a0 The kids are asking for Daddy, the dog needs to pee, and the coffee has dribbled its last drops into the pot \u2013 […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":387,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_is_tweetstorm":false,"jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":false,"jetpack_social_options":[]},"categories":[376,425,428,405],"tags":[],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"yoast_head":"\n2 poems - The Manchester Review<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=12624\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"2 poems - 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