The following poem by Anushka Das from New Delhi was selected as a commendable mention in Wingword Poetry Prize 2020
my mother is decreasing
she tip toes barefoot about
the house to not make a
murmur of her existence
my mother is contracting
she nibbles at our leftovers
until the morsels choke the
base of her throat
my mother is dwindling
she has a shadow which
attempts to detach itself
and a reflection which
strives to crack open the mirror
my mother is shriveling
she is a ghost wearing
cheap moisturizer laden
skin over appendages
that rattle when she moves
my mother is condensing
she cries but within time slots
to not allow the full throttle of
her sorrow to manifest
my mother is recoiling
she stands at the edge of
family photos such that one
of her limbs is always cut out
my mother is shrinking
she has an arched back that
curls more inwards as
she makes up space for us
my mother is a frail framework
of brittle bones and tattered tissues
she has nourished this house
with enough love to call it a home
but every corner bears shackles
the size of her withering wrists
her larynx is a morgue
with unsaid words
rotting like unidentified cadavers
my mother is
one-fourth
the woman she
could be
three-fourths
the woman she
had to be
so I excavated
years of generational
expectations
from in-between
her vertebrae
and asked her to
straighten her spine
I told her that
I will always look
up to her