My mother Bled Blue - A poem by Avipsha Kar

 

About the Poet

Avipsha Kar is a 20 year old, currently pursuing English Honours, and dreams of adding several degrees to her name (the audacity of which, she believes, comes from the moon). On her free days, she is generally found singing on her harmonium or holding a pen. She believes words have the power to change the world, and hopes to be a part of the process someday.

My Mother Bled Blue 

My mother used to bleed blue.

She was no royal, though.

Years of trauma had frozen her blood

To a shade of azure one generally remembers

On frosty winter mornings.

Was she a cold blood?

I don't remember.

But when the provider would spit on the provided

She would rarely protest. 

Instead, she would bleed more.

Or sometimes, she would supress it.

Her face would look poisoned then —

Her breaths would be heavy on the ears

Of the listener, her veins would run tributaries 

On her polished skin, and her crown would slip.

Her blood ran blue.

The fruit does not fall far from the tree.

Blood never rejects blood.

So I became her.

On a spring morning, I rejoiced on rebirth

As I felt my insides freeze. It was cold.

Mother, it was so cold

And I am glad I could reach you at last. 

When I shattered on the ground, in a million pieces

When I scattered on the ground, in a million pieces

The waves poured out of me.

Mother, be proud

You raised a daughter who bled blue.

She was no royal, though.