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