बिखराव. Photo by Preeti Parikh.
Born a hard seed
I sprouted into a milky clump.
Cotton boll picked,
I was carded, warped, spun.
One amongst many, I arrived at the [ ]—
wound, ready for the weaving.
The weaver interlaced us tightly—
his weft silken, glistening.
His [ ]’s needle strung and pierced, inoculated
into our cloth-skins, the skeins of motifs.
Such was the loom, such their tapestries.
Unspooled, I roam the world now.
Now, I prefer my weaves gauzy.
Now, I let the fabric breathe.