The aroma of the vegetables broth
tickles my nostrils.
Mother cooks. One of those veg only days
has revolved into the place.
I fake shooting myself in the head.
Mother laughs aloud.
The pungency of the mustard in the oil blasts
into shrapnel of tears.
Some petals of the onions roll on the floor,
wait for some emotions
to exchange between two souls.
Sunshine reclines on s pile of utensils –
one battle wound of time.
The scene dies; rigor mortis sets in;
every detail gains the eternal life.
Only death can make things immortal.
Sentimental Scenes II
The house built by my grandfather
maintains a stiff tilt between
two tall dwellings of his brothers,
and we live without sun for most of the year.
After the pandemic lockdown I take my daughter
outside, her first outdoor, show the sun rising,
explain, it is caffeine for the plants and beings
served in a round chalice. She screams,
“I desire to go out.” Outer we go. Outer. Outer.
Into the orbit around ourselves we stand and rotate.
The house tilts its tip, as if to greet us and fearing
its two vehement guardian may not allow the same.
Illustration Nick Victor
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