The bedroom stains breathe and thrive
On shimmering streaks of air.
Each new luminous morning, starting to smell
The flames of the day.
The mirror, tucked away in a quiet nook
Smells of poetry in its atomic particles of dust.
The toiletries, jammed in the dresser
Bathes in the colorful beauty of the sun.
The mirror breathes in the looming shadows
And light, sings along a mundane, familiar song
With the walls in the room,
Smeared with dirt, ink and old habits,
The golden pulp of the coiled bodies
Smelling of stale, recycled dinner and
The colored promise of the sun.
The mirror is their oldest confidante,
He laughs and cries with the crumpled bedsheets,
The old, unwashed linen blinds.
The mirror takes in all–bodies engraved
In the warm sweat of the room, bodies moving,
Spinning fast, legs and arms bloated,
Dragged in a household of dreams and despair,
The lips that are peeled, sore, yet singing,
Sucking the blood beneath the fingernails.
The mirror luxuriates, reflects and enlivens
The powdered beauty camouflaging
The dark night’s empty crevices.
Lopa Banerjee. April 21, 2015
Note: My attempt to demystify a fairy tale and replace it with an ordinary, mundane portrayal that is close to my heart.