Shell Poem by Imtiaz Dharker

The egg may be
about to hatch
thresholds, windows, floors,
shutters, tiles, a room,
A tulsi plant in a Dalda tin,
mirchi and lemon over the door
to protect the children
fathers mothers brothers two-in-ones.
Stacked one upon the other,
back to back,
tacked on sideways. A place
not private, though it pretends
to walls and bolts;
but battered, cracked
so all the lives show through
the boards and beams
that might as well
be paper, glass.

At last. The promise
of the imperfect shell.