The Fridge

Look, no more chamadumpas,
kovakais or obese baingans.
Just artisanal pork, bhoot
jolokia and kebabs: no more
need to lie about the red meat.

Your head, Ma, conceals well
among the cabbages. When
I peeled open your eye-lid
three days from the mortuary,
as you lay before the oven

bathed, in a currant black gown,
your sister slapped my wrist.
But it was too late: I’d already
seen. The retina, like curd you’d
half-eaten with avakaya pickle,

then stored away un-lidded
for maggots: such culture.
No more broken coconuts,
withered jasmine or marigold.
The snake gourd is not for God.

Above the tray empty of insulin
needles, eggs not devilled.
The pet mongoose, (when
I was nine?) munching squid
when you opened the door

Now sits comfortably atop
the beer and wine bottles,
enjoying sushi with a chopstick.
My memory, unlike supermarket
vegetables, isn’t lacking in flavour.