A yellow moon hung from the peeled sky
of our kitchen.
My mother, barefoot and dressed in a quilted robe
stirred milk on the stove.
She circled the white ocean with a metal spoon,
skimmed the top for burnt clods
and thought of diaspora. A recycled wave
moving with the tides and simmered
between continents. She poured legend
into a steel cup like the Dastūr priest
poured for the Maharajah on the shore of Sanjan.
How he saved us with a teaspoon of sugar in a glass of milk
she told us, and then drizzled honey into our cups
until thick amber dissolved.
At the table, we bowed our heads to the steam that lifted
and drank our history.
The taste of white, bittersweet on nights
that whirled like capes and kept us hidden.
–
Rashna Wadia’s poems appear in Terrain.org, Rust & Moth, Catamaran, Salt Hill Journal, and elsewhere. Her work has received support from VONA/Voices, Open Mouth, and The Kenyon Review. She resides in the SF Bay Area with her husband and two cats.