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.
My Garden 
Sensory and sensual, Uma! “roll my patience flat” is a great line. And there’s an abundance, just like the flowers in your picture.
Beautiful, sensual and sensuous. I can’t pick just one line, it is a whole solid piece. Wonderful!
Elizabeth
Uma beautiful sensual poem!
Pamela
How glorious that you can ‘make’ this happen. Beautiful piece!
yikes. I don’t seem to see this as the others see it! — the silent grief of womankind.
YOur work is consistently good.Beautiful use of language and imagery to express repetious drudgery of a lifetime of rolling rotis and your patience flat. Luck you. Mine rises to the size of a giant souffle and explodes in the oven:)
This was what the prompt should have gotten. Thanks
this poem is so sensual…I especially liked the comparison of the dough to your breast…