Sore throat

She may have sounded like koels

crocheting through the telephone wires

but I cannot remember — so long 

has it been since I heard her true voice.

Now even the motorcycle in her throat

has crashed. Through the night, 

she asks my mother to awaken,

prepare for her lukewarm

sea in a cup,

a spoon to stir nectar

against its salt and bile. 

Ma massages Dida’s blue 

throat with warm mustard

oil, floods her mouth with 

tender vowels, turns her 

pillow. In the mornings, 

Dida gargles 

with my poems.