Take me to the home of my childhood
in the street called “The Gardener’s Garden”
in my tongue, where the veranda overlooked a pond
of water hyacinth and carp, where my mother planted
a bougainvillea vine that painted the white concrete crimson.
Take me to the home where on sultry nights
we did our homework in candlelight, wiping sweat—
where the street dog’s barks and the rages of young men
out- of- work were drowned by my mother singing a raga.
Take me to the home in Delhi near the oil plant
where my mother planted daikon and mustard greens and
sent baskets to every home. There were no girls to laugh with
but only the whistles of trains from the roof.
Take me to the flat just outside of town,
where in tiny pots dahlias still bloom—
where my mother hand feeds the crow,
where after a life of feeding a husband, children, and grandchildren,
my mother hears the mynahs chirp.
as she sips her tea alone.