There’s a Clock in the Nursery

There’s a clock in the nursery wherehouse
Anahitha liked to play.
It had all the toys; a red wooden soldier, holding no rifle.
A puzzle of a yellow sand beach
Where policemen waved by the waves.
She immensely liked the snail rocker;
Ana could pull at it while bouncing
Along a space hopper which she would name ‘Horsey’.


There’s a clock in the nursery where
Anahitha would like to play.
Until the policeman caught the thief in the old clock.
Which signaled dinner time for her.
It was a peculiar clock, thought she,
For it let the tired policeman run along
Behind the ever elusive wooden thief
For exactly the time it would take her
To build a skyscraper with all her blue and red blocks
She wondered about the easy way all the blocks would tumble down
Just the way her mother would when
Her father slipped and fell from his coffin bed
As a habitual invocation of helplessness.

There’s a clock in the nursery where
Anahitha liked to play.
In her rich, red carpet and rich, brown house.
At the back of which there were multiple doorways
Wooden and Words, Backyard and Narnian lands.
She could see her friends taking a turn
About the hallways, waiting for word
On Father, and Mother, who smelled of coffee
She felt their words like a butterfly’s wing
When they told her of the distant lands they had been to
And then she would climb down the platform window
Flocked with each of her dolls having a lie in
The Great Green Castle, a tree, bridge to a paracosm not her own.
Swinging over the back side of her knees she could look into the messy world of the kitchenthief
Then came the painful world Doctors
Soothsayers of her father’s last breath
And her mother ladies- and maybe the ageless wine bottles corked
Not letting light in its true form but the reflected beams out
Laying in the shed, where the  gardener loved to smoke so much.

There’s a clock in the nursery where
Anahitha would like to play.
The three and fifths year old she was
The human hour glass she was
Her blood the rivulet of sand streaming
For her now older mother to be ready
Grown from her,’I will no more be a mother…’
To her, ‘I will no longer be a needed, loved one.’

Then her father turned into a clockwork angel
And her mother no longer the waiting widow.
She learnt she preferred impermanence, with vemod,
Of not dwelling for her mother’s grasp
But all the lands she had yet to see
Described in such detail, she could kiss them
The Whole, Unclean kiss of woe.
And Guilt but remained almost as an after taste
When her mother heard a murmur of súton
‘Tarry down, oh weary, and carry on.’ And
And then a tear and a tear and a tear.
Strange things may happen when you let me go, my mother
For I have just let go
Now for the boundless realms, in time synchronous
With the tired policeman
By the waves, in the clock, and in stories.






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