today, my mother teaches me –
to arrange my bruises along the landmass
of my limbs, and to let them twinkle like stars
that tenderly kiss, the flame of autumn

she teaches me –
to put a bruise on my earlobe
and one between my fingers
just so that my bruises
look like jewels

she teaches me –
to shove the uglier bruises
under a bra-strap or a dress-hem
as I sort, select, shuffle between
which bruises to show
which bruises to hide

today, my mother teaches me –
to fold a wince
into a smile, and the art
of swallowing a sob, and when my throat
gets all salty, afterward
she says, the tanginess will soon abate

and finally, as she whispers farewell
into the folds of my wedding veil
the wavering threads of her whimper
entangled with the silk

she leaves me, a stargazer –
to this constellation
of bruises

©  

Praniti Gulyani