How Does Mother Read My English Poems?

Like entering a shrine.
Each word is a goddess in faint light
obfuscated by rowdy priests.

Her eyes trace the curve of letters
like my trembling hands did once.
Each letter is a map of our lost youths.

She recognises
like cauliflower from broccoli;
but, it is the recipe she waits to crack.

These poems, she says, are grocery lists
for a forgetful husband.
She never needed them.

On some days she eats one
like a mango from our backyard. In pride, for
the tree’s her labor; and sweetness, a bounty.

Abinash Dash Choudhury is a writer and translator. 

Featured image: Rajendra Biswal/Unsplash