the fall was soft
like a friendly hand kneading dough
over the chatter of neighborly gossip
the flour rising with laughter
serling on the cold marble
falling is an art
it may not need assistance
tired from living
expended existence
standing for too long
serving that one purpose alone
the fall will be a relief, wont it?
I dont mean to ask
perhaps I am stating
baking the roti on the tawwa
till it is gloating full
the women laugh at the fullness
someone must be very hungry
their knowledge is pleated like
the oiled hair parted at the roots
generations knotted together
the roti will rise when someone is
hungry
one, two, three
they pile the rotis
dastarkhuan awaits
the gentle fall
without a sound
nor a fight to live another day