Elegy for Nanabhaya
(for my grandfather)
I slice a mango for guests, four horizontal slits
then three vertical, then arrange the fragrant
wet cubes in blue bowls before turning to the
sink to suck the sweetest, slickest bit of pulp
from the large, slippery seed. Fifteen years ago
you peeled one for me: one rough hand holding
its round, red body while the other stroked the
knife against its skin until it gave way to the gold beneath.
When your body lay on a bed of ice for three
days, adorned only in a white cotton shift,
I had but few memories: your dark, stern face,
a silver urn for tobacco remains. I fingered a
hard, painful pimple, willing it to erupt, while
weeping men walked past to sample your wife's
rice pudding, its fragrant affirmation of grief. You
didn't know that in your body's last dying moments,
I held your leg, its dry skin now remembered in
every inch of space I curve against his back.
I slice a mango for guests, four horizontal slits
then three vertical, then arrange the fragrant
wet cubes in blue bowls before turning to the
sink to suck the sweetest, slickest bit of pulp
from the large, slippery seed. Fifteen years ago
you peeled one for me: one rough hand holding
its round, red body while the other stroked the
knife against its skin until it gave way to the gold beneath.
When your body lay on a bed of ice for three
days, adorned only in a white cotton shift,
I had but few memories: your dark, stern face,
a silver urn for tobacco remains. I fingered a
hard, painful pimple, willing it to erupt, while
weeping men walked past to sample your wife's
rice pudding, its fragrant affirmation of grief. You
didn't know that in your body's last dying moments,
I held your leg, its dry skin now remembered in
every inch of space I curve against his back.
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