EAT

Cooking for one

The onion slices are concentric,
Stump-like, circles grooved in.
They do not bespeak age though,
Just as my ankles do not.
The long, hard carrots stew quietly,
The pot contains them well.
I protect myself
From the stove-flame’s licks.

Peas, parsley, broccoli and bread
Banquet the old tablecloth;
Medievally spread,
That old tablecloth –
A wrinkled courtesan that has lain
For many feasts, to be enjoyed by others.
Today, I lord over it.

High noon marches up the day’s drawbridge
To chasten my kitchen-castle.
I guard against its glare with thick drapes.
A fortress of darkened virtue, cool stone,
And the last soldier, I.

Chop, grate, mash, stir quickly.
In the silent kitchen, I am panged
To quickness by a swelling hunger.
My belly, housing both stomach and womb,
Murmurs daintily. Ladylike virgin.
I rub it with primitive practice of motherhood.

The crockery awaits my attention.
I am husbanded into service,
Ladling lovingly, spooning with care,
Committing my labours to cutlery.
I feel the fruit’s glassy skin, dripping juice
Into bottles filling with colour,
Steward my form into the chair.

The food looks too good to eat.
I pick up the knife and fork,
A lonely knight in her keep,
Rescued from starvation.

PLAY

Name, Place, Animal, Thing

Start.
The ritual of alphabet.

Christening

Heavy foremothers sit atop me,
Testing their old bones
Against my new ones.
Filial furniture.
Using my body to
Stick swords and hold thread.
Pincushion progeny.

Where?

Being located is trauma,
No tracks, no tacks.
Spare Attic, remote room,
Dreamless hallway and foyer
To stall transience.
Squares pencilled on plans,
Accidentally left disclosed.

Beast

Unhealthy female animal,
A cat playing with wool,
Cannot climb trees.
Legs crossed like a bird,
Some mad spark of learnt shame.
I would crawl naked on all fours for beauty
But would not know it if it happened.

Object

Stuff. Common nouns.
Shapes and materials
From rubbled Babel, a
Patchwork pageant of recognition.
I am not part of it, I just am.
I am not. Not am I.

Stop.

WASH

Laundry

Empires are brought home.
We step outside our castles, mailed flimsily,
To lay siege to our natures
In mutant jungles.

Alien dust from other lives smudges our envelopes.
It might be dangerous.

The tingle of suds crinkles my fingers.

I reclaim myself, erase marks of myth,
Wash off stains of kingdoms.
The sweaty smell of my race lingers.

The warm foam massages my palms.

Clean clothes. We wear them, they us.
I enjoy the water greying.

Drinking Tea

Tea civilizes,
Brute tongues are tamed
And savage fingers occupied.

A religious ceremony,
Water offered to fire.
Milk crumples into bird-feet creases
In a delicate, delicious performance
Learnt from spiders in a temple in Benares.

Foam furls on the edges, shy guardian
Of the holy ballet, puckered wreath,
Boiling over nothing, jealous-lover-ly.
Sugar tinsels the show, leaves are confetti.
They disappear in the igneous swirl
That is now a lazy volcano.

Muslin musters the leaves,
Spring’s rags clairvoyant.
Beautiful brown
Darjeeling in China,
Rims round
And gold
As monocles of drinkers.