Morphie | Michele Mekel
Claws. Paws. Whiskers. Purrs.
He destroyed the furniture.
But he healed my heart.
hen shack? He digs the earth, collects abundant of her flesh, and smears it across the frame of straws and bamboo sticks. He lives in the lap of Nature. If you ask whether she is hurt, she will say, “Come on, I’m his mother!” Mothers heal themselves: they are ever-forgiving and find solace in their bundles of joy.
How do children make their world of artistry? They paint the walls that surround them. Parents take pride in the representation of their minds: they aren’t angry; guardians encourage their toddlers to sketch more. Children can make partitions charming.
Michele Mekel, who calls herself a “witch and woman,” pens a lenient poem. The first line is composed of four words: “Claws. Paws. Whiskers. Purrs.” These words, contrary to the title of the poem, isn’t written in a trance. For, the next line is confessional: “He destroyed the furniture.” However, Michele’s heart thinks well of her tomcat, who, despite his feline behavior, sedates her nerves like opium.
Morphine soothes, and so does the family. I’m yet to find another potent healer like “Morphie.” — Kiriti Sengupta