By Vanshika Chaudhary
I wonder if they can tell. The way this overcoat
(tanned coppery like the temple bells-
will the buttons reverberate
in my chest?)
pooling at my legs will erase the bright
silken drapes of my scarlet youth. Sunday mornings
I stroll about this snowy neighborhood and easily
forget the
(rickshaws? streetside poha?)
time.
The tea is served piping hot in delicate glass mugs,
(five rupees, ma’am)
lemon and hibiscus freshness
(no biscoot?)
with just a hint of saffron. In this new dawn
I stand unshaken, unabated, unaffected.
As the sky cools down fiery red to throbbing blues
(chasing familiar hues)
I am reminded of my mother’s food