Bhishma

Eight is a cursed number
but who believes in curses in this age?

In a room covered in scribblings,
blue, pink, green markers freely roamed
in soft hands trembling with their righteousness.

Who reads the Scriptures believing
they glimpse history or hear truth
unmediated by all metaphor?

Broken dolls, pages rent from books,
the smell of an old once-mother
in the heat of unconditioned summer.

An eighth child reading, unravels
each skin, pulling at the loose string,
until the cloak is off her protector.

Lying on a ochre mattress,
a storm cloud of lapsed attention,
she hums a soothing crib melody. Then,
history is revealed.

Patient, draw wisdom’s breath from the source.