Hidden behind your tongue pooling in saliva
taste numbed by oceans of salt
the word for mango aam
is the same as the word for common
In India it was common
to sit cross-legged on the swept floor
of your father’s house
suck the delight from the conch
of whole mangoes
taste their pickled sting
with your fingers before they tenderized your lips
made sour, your teeth

Where shall you go my sons? How will you ask for
answers, meaning uttar in your grandmother’s
mouth, meaning north, meaning snow-capped
Himalayas, plains fertile with
Goddesses sinuous in river-form, your meridians
lined on your palms and your
genomes, meaning you
were birthed from a language where parsaun, the day
after tomorrow wheels to point at
the day before yesterday

Contributor Notes

Yamini Pathak is a former software engineer turned poet and freelance writer. She was born and raised in India and now lives in New Jersey. Her poetry and non-fiction have appeared in Anomaly, Waxwing, The Kenyon Review blog, Rattle, Jaggery, and elsewhere. She writes a monthly art column for The Hindu newspaper’s Young World publication. Yamini reads poetry for The Nashville Review and is an alumnus of VONA/Voices (Voices of Our Nations Arts Foundation), and Community of Writers.