Upon unearthing the dreams locked in Mother's saris:

not so impulsive–
wearing a plain petticoat,
mother has me ready when

our bare hands purge lengths of cloth, lengths of cloth
swirling around our hands
from the bowels of the iron clasp trunk.

dress up time:
mother hooks she tugs she wraps
she wraps I twirl, centrifuging
between her hands.

I am the twirling centrifuge–
a pallet of vanadium oxides winding
around my waist in
mustard. mendhi. vanda. topaz. lotus.
flushing roses against cobalt blue hips;
opaque iron (III), the brick red blouse;
the soft pink veil, like
delicate floral hexaaquamanganese
on net; I spin– mother wraps me,
a test tube mannequin,
in wet coppers, deep blue sulphates,
pleated orange peels, lemon zests of chromium;
zinc doves fluttering against my skin,
the turbulent silk
rises to my oesophagus

until I pause.
catch breath.
mother pins three pins,
she orbits, I orbit.
we are yes–
volatile,
but we never rust.