Your Voice is Not a Slice
Keep roots full, gourds bitter; let wild nature fiercely twine against all…
Read more →A mother battles time’s voracious termites, burning mountains of lost domestic order.
The almirah is eaten shut
by insatiable voracity
this world is
in the universe
of termite mouths. My mother
recounts scorpions
of termite bites,
antness of their hurry,
blind vultures in their hunger
to gulp down order
like distorting convexities
our lives pose
through the phone.
I can’t
hear you, I say.
Amid what’s lost
in transmission, she is counting
for me the times she walked down
holding mountains
of half-eaten sarees
she is burning with kerosene.
I am
taking a break, she says
between one round of burning
and a fierier one after our phone call
ends and I go to fix myself
something to eat.