Rochelle Potkar
Disquiet
Disquiet
My father was the quietest man;
his few words made no sense
in the world’s idiom.
Saddled into a marriage
astride a dead horse of tradition
he flogged it too many times
for two children.
He stayed away even when near.
He did not belong to anyone,
unaware of our favorite colors,
our school grades, or
the names of our boyfriends.
He lent money to ruffians at high interest rates
and recovered nothing.
Smoothening his hands over glossy brochures,
he invested in scams of impossible dreams.
He used to count his coins
like I now count my words
I too am falling out of the system.
I too belong to no one.
I fear he is growing inside me . . .
(Are we always pregnant with our parents?)
I fight to brew soup for my daughter
To know her grades
and look her in the eye
during her babbles.
I know her favorite toys, colors
the names of her friends.
I have hidden the broken mirrors of my growing
disengagements.
I am killing the father inside me,
but he keeps rising.
My language is turning alien
in the world’s idiom.
I too have placed faith in scams
Of soul, body, and intellect.
The rule being: everyone is duped at least once.
I search for him in other faces
and turn mine away
when I find even one similar feature.
But can I run away from the one cell
that is the whole Self?
