what do my hands find in the pockets of your shadow—

that triangle of waist-skin— an abandoned trainwreck

at an empty railway station

our shadows together don't double the dark

walking with my mother i'm reminded of bits of what

i've been

she says she dreamt of grandma helping her

vomit snakes & pieces of heat

i can't begin to untangle how i echoed

into my mother's womb how much of it the momentum

how much of it the moment when my mother makes idlis

they come out of the steamer like paper-boats like

shore-washed seashells like a beginner's yogasanas

we eat idlis not only with coconut chutney but also

with the possibility of new never seen before shapes

reminder— self-portrait as an idli in her breachable

steaming body— schedule for later

as the splash of spit & snot describes wet galaxies

in a masked-sneeze

a wisp of whispers points to

the dewdrops on skidrow up on that branch

it sounds like the door opens to a spider climbing

like gooseberries burning in the river with the water

being pricked by waxing minutes of air

but this is home i don't want anything lasting in it

~ ajay

10/4/2021