Ras Chaval (Indian Chicken Soup)

Six parts water
to three pounds bones
the same bones bent over
yesterday’s laundry
the same laundry I did
a week ago. The same week ago.

Ginger-garlic fried
to fragrant potency
the same potency that lifts
the senses, the spirits
the same spirits that haunt
and slump. The same slump.

Her flesh all plump and shiny
Chicken breasts, four thighs
the same thighs that held me
in safe harbor, wide channel
the same channel that I’ve
become. The same become.

You wait. For pot to boil
then lower flame
the same flame that burned
in you, in me,
the same we that’s learned
to wait. The same wait.

Categories: Poetry

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1 reply

  1. Truly beautiful. And felt. God bless

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