Museum Poem by Shakira Nandini

Right before my eyes, my life
has become a museum.
Without my knowing,
my unconscious has amassed
secret treasures, antique blessings.
Here, on shelves,
mummified words and preserved moments,
stacked and lacquered, stand protected
even from the heat of my body!
My broken bangles
sound from cabinets
like musical instruments.
Look at this shelf—
see the broken body of my childhood doll, asleep.
Somewhere the mirror of my dressing table—
faded, cracked—still reflects hellish times.
Did I leave my eye in the kohl pot?
It still stares back!
My life, crushed
under rusted jewelry,
frightened by the clink of my anklets, wails.
A broken comb
holds tangled hairs
while off in a corner
a pitcher leaks
the scent of my thirst.
The stuck dial of a great clock
trembles on a painful moment;
from swamps of emotion
a stench wafts up.
Hoards of tourists arrive to ogle
my house of wonders.
One derides this gasping corpse,
turns away, indifferent,
while another, a scholar,
will research these things
but only to prove his genius.
None - alas! - discovers the thread
tangled in dust.
I stand aside and wonder,
waiting at the end of that thread
to be found