The lab reverberates at the declaration of my father’s name,
like a god arriving in his holy chambers.
He flies off to faraway lands using his creation.
My mother rests by the porch weaving marred scarfs.
His telekinesis machine lays unscathed in the lab,
We live on in this dysfunctional dollhouse.
The reticent smell of rotten apples rests in our backyard,
she stiches for her selfish doll to endure a marriage,
which exists like an experimental theorem.
She never wanted more but only the right amount of sugar in her pie.
The machine unfolds the enigma like a pandora’s box.
Suppressed yearning, spewing snakes and accompanied misery.
I hold her petite wrist and pull her into the trance,
her hand in mine, swaying to the jazz of the midnight.
I switch on the machine and let it work its mechanic,
I levitate away from the dolled house on fire.
-Aishwarya Khale
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