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.