Cooking Fish

The scales stuck to my hands glistening
like silver coins, the fish naked
lay vulnerable on the grassy bank.

Feet pulled up my grandmother sat
on chair, rolling beads of prayer, soft flesh
of inner thigh quivered like scaleless fish.

She smeared the walls with camphor
to blot the smell of fish cooked in a mud pot
under the mango tree yards from the doorway

rubbed bright with vermilion – the red mother wore
on her forehead, red of chilli from Hyderabad
that she ground and stuffed in bloodless fish.

Advertisements

2 thoughts on “Cooking Fish

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s