Purple Poem

there is a purple poem

on my mother’s neck

that my father writes for her

every full moon night

instead, most poets write on paper

but my father writes on mother’s skin

she smiles, she says she doesn’t mind

says, the purple poem is truly

a thing of pride and beauty

yet, she keeps it covered, carefully

with the ends of her dupatta, shielding it

says, she’s scared of it being looked at

by the evil eye

there is a purple poem

on my mother’s hand

that father writes for her

every full-moon night

instead, most poems have words

‘but it’s a shape poem’ my mother insists

sits me down before the computer

makes me look at some

but does not ask me to write one

I wonder why

there is a purple poem

on my mother’s forehead

that my father writes for her

every full-moon night

instead, it has not been written tenderly

upon the softness of paper

with a gliding quill

it has been pummeled, pushed -

slapped, and smashed

probably the way, mom punches walnuts

into the dough of our winter cake

so that the walnut stays

I think father also wishes

for this purple poem

to permanently stay

there is a purple poem

on my mother’s feet

that my father writes for her

every full-moon night

and tonight, as I reach out,

my fingers measuring the dark

ensuring my steps are silent

I tread with caution

so as to not arise her

I touch this purple poem

which she says, is a treasure -

an honor, a privilege, a boon

and even at times, a wife’s pride

her sleep-crusted eyes flicker open

she winces