It’s noon, grandma’s on the cot, next to the wall next to the window,
peeling hot potatoes, her swollen feet blue, smell of her half-dry sari in the
closed room, al dente dreams, parts you can’t chew, grandma’s white teeth
uncooked corn, her nose-ring catches and spits light you sleep head on her
chest past five at the Sabzi Mandi, scootersscooters, hornshorns,
sweet potato chaatmasala; mogra, gulab, sandalwood smoke,
handcarts pushing jumbo peanuts, balloons, plasticguns, paper windmills,
the May heat melts black tar, Indian squash, cauliflower, carrots,
What’s that? Ladiesfingers, she says, Okra.
Where are the gentsfingers?
she laughs her eyes on you,
from behind a rickshaw wreck-balls her little finger
wilted sunflower never to breathe sun again.
*Sabzi Mandi: a vegetable market.