by Shamik Banerjee

Endurance

Some days, it’s just a dead scholastic term
for me. Although I tell my blooming kin
to act upon it too, not simply learn
the one-line definition, I’m betrayed
by my own tutelage when grave distress
surmounts good times—debacles, tragedies,
or ailments obstinate enough to leave.
Then things around me bear my rage’s curse;
the panes have often suffered from my fist.

And there’s my mother always staying firm
towards this value. Armoured with a grin,
she fights pyrexia that tends to burn
or sap her bones. Strength’s fabric might get frayed,
yet none of her cuisines have one pinch less
or more of salt. Rough feelings of unease
don’t ever cause her daily chores to grieve.
To feed our house, she wakes at dawn; a nurse
even on days her own sun’s veiled by mist.

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