Mariat Thankachan
Speaks the Mississippi Story
Mariat Thankachan
Down the dirt road on the back side Delta
Stretching curves limp over the railroad tracks, lackluster.
Smutty lines of graffiti are etched into the rusting of abandoned trains.
Sunshade grit tunnels stand adorned with weebling shards of golden grass.
On either side, the flat plane of green nothingness
Horizons of corn heads and soybean eyes
as far as the vision witnesses, country roads of yawning meadows,
of bored schools of daisies and dreary bunches of dandelions.
This is how Mississippi speaks. Abe’s BBQ
and the Crossroads; Home of the Blues.
Droning, syncopated tunes float out an old man’s guitar
as the lady beside him does a lazy sway to his honeyed croon.
Sometimes you feel like wagging fingers at unattractive muddy trails,
like waving back at your neighbor's pickup truck honk of a hello,
like bellowing with laughter at the wiseman’s naptime tall tales,
like throwing a hitchhiker's thumb up ’cause we’re all friendly down south.
Twirling with the rolled haystacks or feeling icky slapping mosquitoes,
waiting for the crop duster hums or the lone train at midnight,
like falling back onto a shrub of cotton percale, like licking sod with the spotted cows
or procuring strength like the mighty magnolia standing guard over its barnhouse, alone.
Kerala Snakeboat Race
Mariat Thankachan
I saw the snakeboat race my sixth year of life,
a wicked sport meant for the finest at heart,
one where the cries of a hundred men harmonize
as wooden oars, etched with charms of luck and prosperity, pound the waters at once.
Harpo, chundan, vallam. Together, boat, water.
Frenzied beats of perfect strokes,
the backwaters of Kerala calm no more
as 2,200 bodies fling themselves into the boat dance.
Regatta meant for chilling showers of the monsoon season,
represents the bond of community and the waves.
The villagers look on, with whistles of celebration and support
for the Olympics on water.
Delta Crossroads
Mariat Thankachan
They say I speak slang without shame,
talkin’ with the missing “g”
and slicin’ some words right down their intestines
That’s ’cause I’m from the Mississippi Delta.
Down south, I grew up listening to hip kinda tunes,
untrained ears seekin’ the mellow purrin' of jazz and blues
The old man’s lazy guitar lullabyin’ this young’un to sleep
Even the magnolias of Sasse Street swayed to the vernacular
I learned how to paint here in the Delta,
so I birth the golden acrylics of my vision through textured brushstrokes
Canvasses come alive, my best storytellin' versions
My yellows never as fetchin' as the corn-field sunset, fo’ sure
That’s all fine and dainty, though,
my childhood roots are protected, valued, never understated
Strangers travel eons to visit the three-guitar crossroads,
but only my slang can explain the true sense of Delta
’Morning
Mariat Thankachan
He pulls up to the cafeteria
in one of those fashionable golf carts.
Backseat with poking hairs of weeds and scratchy limbs of trees.
He wears a cap quite unusual,
an orange of sorts, peachy and salmon at the roots.
Wiry strands of feeble snow hairs and rivers of forehead wrinkles.
He walks through the doors
with wisdom beyond years and his usual wish, “’Morning.”
Palm folds clutching curves of that worn-out coffee mug.
He sits by the window
to stare at flowers he grows, maybe families of roses.
Work of the W gardener, admired by passersby of the Perennial Field.
Not Red Marks
Mariat Thankachan
Of smooth emeralds and shards of grass,
viridescent dashes, scores, scratches,
marks. I read those marks.
Across the expanse of my poetic words,
your pen not cruel with a brutal red.
Instead, green. I give regard for those not red marks.
Espera
Mariat Thankachan
Wait for a while, a bit longer
for the peek-a-boo streaks of a glimmer dawn,
for the far-away songs of forest fox’s wedding.
A fox gets married when the rain slants down on a sunshine day.
Espera, Espera
Wait for a while, a bit longer
before the goodbyes are hugged and forever gone,
before you send your love and no one’s there to take it.
If let free, the salty rivers will flow steady down your cocoa-skinned crevices.
Espera, Espera
Wait for a while, just a bit longer
so I can walk with you, holding hands of youth
so we don’t utter the foolish farewell when the hour of departure hasn’t arrived.
Don’t feel the pain yet of lonely lullabies or empty walks.
Espera, wait
Road Map
Mariat Thankachan
Joints clack against pine needles as she strolls through the woods
sunlit rays, crystal sharp, pierce her pores through the canopies
cap sleeves reveal her brown map—a pale caramel tone of burnt syrup
stubbornness gave up on lotion a long time ago, aloe vera her side nurse
Her mother scoffs at what has become of the blank canvas she birthed
nine months of no harm to a rubbery mold in a nest made of veins
the canvas blank no more, the child has drawn on it
paint splashes of past moments scaling a road map of life
At five, she tripped on a stone and fell from a bike
scraped her knee and it left a mark
the spibble reads the first time her mother let go of her back
and it’s forever embedded on her map
She used to poke ink designs on her arm, bored in physics and fighting sleep
collages and mandarins of lyrics and cycles of the moon
couldn’t imagine the dark poison seeping into her blood
but the map shows all, even the unwashed pen stains of long ago
When society declared her an adult, she ran and threw money at an artist in a parlor
now the right side of her back shows a portrait of numbers
birthdates, graduation, proposals, and deathdates
all engraved on the right edge of the road map
Cuts and bruises, tattoos and smudges
Cuts and blemishes, her rivers and bumpy roads
one who cares will ask of her story and she’ll show them her map
fingers tracing the surface of her memories and lessons learned
V
Mariat Thankachan
The girl’s dreaded letter: V
Everyone knows of her pick from the alphabet,
as it’s etched into hairline and is the shape of her widow’s peak.
She has been waiting against the wind
for the past few years, for a love that has gone to sea.
The salty air her only company, widow’s peak on the edge of vacuum.
Her songs used to be vivific and vocable and vivid
until she was left a widow,
vacant at heart.
When winter proclaimed her lifeless lover,
she wore drapes of darkness to mourn the loss,
a mark to veil the ill fortunes a widow’s peak brings.
Then strangers voyaged to the tip of her peak.
Wished to feel the vibrations of her voice, drink vermouth and offer velvet vaccine for pain,
but they could present nothing worthy, as they've never felt the hurt of a widow’s peak.
Lullaby
Mariat Thankachan
Luminescent glow through an ornate lampshade
radiates the outlines of her upper lip.
Spoken words over my cradle,
a berceuse to lull me to night.
“Oh, sweet sunshine,
let me swing you to sleep.
Your rays still so bright
after the stars drew goodnight.
Won’t you soften your shine
so as not to envy the moon?”
I couldn’t resist the sway
of her cradle song for me.
Not a crinkle in the blanket furrowed
after my eyes closed to sleep.
Last scene of my memories
is the corners of her lips
when they wrinkled upward
then bent down and puckered.
A texture of love and shelter of care.
She knew I was attached to her warmth.
So she sang a tune into the cotton folds of cradle,
“How could you resist my lullaby kiss?”
description of an almond-shaped globular organ with lids that drew her world when open
Mariat Thankachan
crystal in hazel
milk honey blended
sharp seductive and
edged with rich mistrust
but shines like sunlight
Nana’s Pride
Mariat Thankachan
Knotted strands fly
behind her
like black ravens at dusk
Strangers on the street
think that the threads
look like a tangled nest
of a Great Kiskadee,
of twigs from an ebony tree
Her hair didn’t always look so grubby.
Nana would yell until
her roots shone cleanliness
like the laundry drying outside.
Nana would then hug her head,
and pour crystal rose water
to caress liquid magic
into depths of her follicles.
Those years, her hair was the envy of the town,
cover of magazines
and brightest star around.
When the battles and bombs came,
she became a prisoner of war.
They chopped off her silky tresses with cheap shears
to replace her beauty with bravery.
So she cried over the bundles lying on the floor
of Nana’s love and memories,
a child no more.
EXPRESSIVE
Mariat Thankachan
She grew her eyebrows as
young, wild, and free
as her; expressive.
Thick hairs never
trimmed or plucked,
poking over her bent lashes
from coast to coast,
curving through creases of forehead
to crinkling eye wrinkles to
edges of a faint unibrow.
When she criticized,
they crunched down together
and furrowed above the nose.
Confusions made one
ride up in question,
acute angle a sharp sign of annoyance
for strangers to stay away
or face the venomous tongue of her eyebrow.
They smiled more welcome than
her lips ever did in joy,
extending kindness to those in need of it.
Her eyebrows spoke more
so that words were subordinates,
reckless thoughts, angry challenges, warnings,
merry greetings, radiant smiles, sentiments.
Each strand a different color in behavior,
directed, pointed chief; expressive.