Something grand about grandmother
a broad green hollow
I contain in the well of my heart.
Something more mother about grandmother
womb a sprawling strath redwood-wooded
in the depths of which I was born
something smaller than a fly
hung in the unruffled air she sat me down
to coat me in a hand-knit sweater
my cold skin warmed
inside her labyrinthine knee-sock.
She sang to me the prayer songs in her cassettes
and as a yarn of fresh sun rose
every morning through her quilted curtain
prepared me buckwheat flatbread
for the fasting days
panjeeri for the winter months
hot water bag for my period cramps
and the manner of let it come to a boil
simmer
let it come to a boil
again then pour
as she’d produce two doilies to absorb tea rings
blobs of cream formed on the tops of our cups.
Time dallied inside a Black Forest clock
her house-bird turning up
hour after hour while her drawing room remained
desolate for an entire year, until
an autumnal first-September leaf
fell in her brother's vegetable garden
a foot away from the bed by the door that had become her last house.
Something more daughter about granddaughter
I pull the ends of her winter scarf
knot it under my chin and step out on a heavy hill
feet dug in a thick understory of wool.
I contain in the well of my heart.
Something more mother about grandmother
womb a sprawling strath redwood-wooded
in the depths of which I was born
something smaller than a fly
hung in the unruffled air she sat me down
to coat me in a hand-knit sweater
my cold skin warmed
inside her labyrinthine knee-sock.
She sang to me the prayer songs in her cassettes
and as a yarn of fresh sun rose
every morning through her quilted curtain
prepared me buckwheat flatbread
for the fasting days
panjeeri for the winter months
hot water bag for my period cramps
and the manner of let it come to a boil
simmer
let it come to a boil
again then pour
as she’d produce two doilies to absorb tea rings
blobs of cream formed on the tops of our cups.
Time dallied inside a Black Forest clock
her house-bird turning up
hour after hour while her drawing room remained
desolate for an entire year, until
an autumnal first-September leaf
fell in her brother's vegetable garden
a foot away from the bed by the door that had become her last house.
Something more daughter about granddaughter
I pull the ends of her winter scarf
knot it under my chin and step out on a heavy hill
feet dug in a thick understory of wool.
January / February 2023
Anannya Uberoi was born in Delhi, and now lives in Madrid. She is poetry editor at The Bookends Review and the winner of the sixth Singapore Poetry Contest. Her work has appeared in Poetry Wales, The Emerson Review, and Poetry Salzburg Review.
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