the morning after

in the kitchen a burning smell lingers
maybe it was the kheer
or something else that simmered
longer than just one afternoon

the big pot sits still on the table, empty and spotless
barely a trace of the mess that brewed
as we laid down our bags and sipped chai
inhaled the aroma and swallowed our pride

I used to believe food was a love language
I still do – only with a poignant reminder
that onto your plate the gravy is not always gently poured
sometimes it scalds with searing steam

I wish it was Thursday so the cleaner would come today
instead I’ll spend time scrubbing the stains away
trying to unlearn that the hand that feeds
can be the hand that hits

but for breakfast today you want eggs
and I want something to keep myself preoccupied

Brighton, 4/2023
–
edited 5/2024