I think of packing myself into a tiny bag
of breathing air,
and placing me in your lungs as an
alveoli,
as you begin packing your sweater for the
cold of that country,
Let me be there in you till you sense an
Indian chai somewhere in the corner
pouring warmth and comfort out of its
vessels to yours.
Paddler Press Vol 3
A layer of smooth yellow lump-free batter,
I coat over the banana slice,
that wriggles free of my hand into the bowl,
like a fish sliming to its aquatic home.
And my memory sparks, with its dive,
echoing our little conversation of -
how you loved your grandmother’s banana fritters.
Paddler Press Vol 3
It’s eleven p.m as we pause, our video-call for a rest,
the power will be severed in your place
for about an hour – a ritual these days you say;
for the people of your village to walk on their terrace,
counting the stars and acknowledge the changing climate........
My friend from the city, calls to warn,
to not serve him boiled tapiocas when he comes home.
Yes, I agree cassava cannot be an item of lavish taste,
but I wonder who could say no,
to those lovely tubers shaken freshly from earth,
with the dampness of life still sticking to its sides
like a cloak and the smell of rain,
the nascent of mountain rains holding in them,
as if it has stocked all the monsoons for this sudden introduction to light.
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