by Don Mihsill
At dinner,
your mother said: “no”.
How she wishes
we listened
but we were caught-
up in building
love to a crescendo.
This is a fragile end-
eavour for people
like us: I worship
idols and you pray
at Wittgenstein’s altar.
We are different:
cement and brick,
yet your mater
(and pater, for that matter)
insist on a sameness
for your husband. Funny
that coming from a chutney-
consuming connoisseur,
the queen of other cuisines.
I would settle for your biryani
readily (and you would pair it
with my doh nei) we’d eat
spoonfuls of love and devotion
adjusting our taste-buds
to each other’s salt.
Yet, on this fateful dinner,
I, who can’t tolerate heat,
am served raja mircha
by your dearest mother
as if to drive home the point:
differences can’t work.
You laugh at my cheek
(how they flush when you kiss me!)
when I say I’m alright,
I’d love some more
so I won’t forget the taste
or sensation of this night.
Your laughter harks a hollow:
cutlery, and jaws move
the conversation killed before
it commenced (that’s what happens
when inherent questions are dismissed).
After the plates are piled
in the sink, I’ve cooled
down, you bring the frost-
ed dessert. You sit next to me,
flaky lemon meringue pie
in hand, you slip
your hand over mine
and we eat – for seconds –
the look on their faces.
Glossary