Cut and Dried

A Poem

By Sonakshi Srivastava


‘It’s the kind of kitchen people don’t just cook in, they live in it.’ (Gow)
We see her-
Bent double near the cabinet,
Hunting
For the knife-
That fell midair
Before striking the breast –
Of the passionless chicken;
Turning to us to return
 A lemony smile. 

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‘With despair- cold, sharp despair; buried deep in her heart like a wicked knife.’ (Mansfield)
We see them stare-
A blank
Returning a blanker gaze-
Unable to tell
The dead from the alive.
A cut.
More cuts.
Marinate-
Ointment. 

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‘I want to swallow you, have you melt into me and flow through my veins.’ (Kang)
The dressing down is done –
And no one ever knows,
Whatever goes behind this door.
The salt is rubbed,
And turmeric and salt-
More salt
To prevent the fester.
And the pickled lemony rinds
Await to be served.
Relished by mouths-
Digested,
Seldom upsetting
Strong stomachs.