Kitchens

Fried eggs with chilli flakes folded inside,

hing frazzled in along their gilded edges,

sitting atop an unabashed biryani -

things that would never be found

in my grandmother's herringbone kitchen

make up the bulk of the fare in mine.

Thank her God, or his missionaries, for that.

My bottle of rioja is nearly empty;

her whisky decanter was always full,

no matter how many men washed down

potatoes-and-milk with its nectar.

We stand in our kitchens

scattering salt like glitter on everything

scooping from the pan with our fingers

surveying each other across the century

wondering in a language

the other doesn't know - how on earth she copes.