Arushee Bhoja

a feast floating toward me and the sweets counter

gleaming like water on water. 

I studied the locations printed on the wall,

marveling over the exotic ones—Switzerland and Germany. 

Often we’d just fought. Once my neck was covered up 

where my mother made me bleed. 

Often I was midway through some punishment

whose reason no one could recall.

I deserve a good return on my investment, my mother

would say about me, but now my dahi vada

was here and I ate it alone while my parents waited,

smiling. Soon our fingers glistened as they worked

in unison, tearing off pieces of our dosa. We knew

the leftovers wouldn’t keep.

So we ate. And my parents poured

their filter coffee—a pair of waterfalls.

At the end, I peeled my thighs

from the booth. The clock counting down.

Framed by the glass doors,

a bowl of mukhwas. I felt I had all the time  

in the world, staring at the spoonful

in my palm, picking out the last bright spots of sugar.