The golden flour landslides on my fingers. I caress
fresh with memory of the previous night, lumps
encrust on nails as I slough away the locusts in the air:
morning thick with hurt, pain. A lifetime of rolling rotis,
hundreds of them that puff like my child’s cheek
purple with sun on the face. Knead
knead till the dough is soft like my breast,
dimpled with touch, a tremble that only he can see.
I pinch a small ball, roll my patience flat,
trim the edges, throw the shred into the sink
to watch it bloat with moisture.