The Portrait Of The Dead Wife
Aunt Eli was an immaculate kitchen,
her tiles neatly scrubbed.
Pots and pans of glazed metal
shone like little crystal moons.
Shelves were stocked with spices,
pickles, dried bitter gourd, tamarind.
Lizards and roaches stayed one foot away,
they were scared.
Life arrived at the kitchen each dawn
from dead slumbers and spiced snores;
breathing through bamboo steamers
pushing puttu out to the large mud vessel
swaying with the stone grinder
rhythmically tumbling a swell derriere
sighing with each sweep of the masala and
washing the ...