Moon at Half Past Noon

Ma, I knew her first by warmth and scent, not sight—
a cloud of yeast and dough that clung
to her worn apron’s threads.
My face pressed into cotton, soft,
where smells of sunned-upon skin met
the lingering breath of toasted cumin,
of onion risen through her pores.
Her touch left a faint trace of salt and sage on me.

Then, Baba—one still evening, shadows long,
a purple globe, sliced and betrayed.
My small rebellion: “I will not.”
The silent, gathering storm he made.
His hand, which once held mine so tight,
became a sudden, stinging word
that swept the reason all away.
The brinjal bled upon the plate.
My cheek held its electric mark.
I learned that love could have a brutal taste,
and leave a permanent, unseen dark.

Now, I am a taste of forgotten things—
the saffron light of a late, cool dusk,
the chill of a glass, the warm, torn crust
of bread I bake alone. The air is thick
with the lingering taste of cumin, a familiar trick
of time. I taste the iron in the dark,
feel the cool shadow of that old, sharp mark,
and smell the salt of my own hands, which now
know the slow simmer, the sudden sting—
and understand the cost of everything.
For I am the plot where both seeds were sown:
Her slow-simmered grace, his bitter root,
grown into this one, complicated fruit.
I cook my life between the flame and stone.