Acintya Shenoy, Week #13: Soured

Katsushika Hokusai. Chrysanthemums and Horsefly. Ink and color on paper. c. 1833–34, Minneapolis Institute of Art. Web.

This poem isn’t about any memory in particular.

I saw the picture you showed me, of a lemon sponge cake with chrysanthemums and

Hydrangeas sitting politely on the supple top, and zest of grapefruit clinging 

to the sides like droplets on oily skin.

I really liked it. I think we should come together one day and make it real. 

My mother showed me how to make chicken curry last night,

and I wanted to try it with you. I know you love the blank, white taste,

How the blood vessels turn brown and tender near the bone and the pillowy flesh

is stained golden with spice. But I prefer your sponge cake. It feels

lighter.

Yesterday I walked into your home and I saw lemons on your front porch,

so I helped you pluck the fruit from the tree in the back and drag the ripped

paper bags to the front. Of course I’ll help. I don’t mind spending

some extra time with you.

When I went home I made your chicken curry again and sent it to you

but I think you were busy picking lemons

so I closed my phone and slept.

When I woke up the next morning I think I saw something crawling

over a wing, so I threw the thing away. You called again,

and we picked chrysanthemums, pink and purple spikes

poking out of paper bags on the front porch. I tried something new tonight,

chicken noodle soup. I added lemon, because I meant it for you.

The smell of fungus fills my nostrils at an ungodly four in the morning

when I descend the steps of my home and see

ants

crawling over my kitchen. I don plastic gloves and a cold metal knife and see

ants

crawling, infesting, invading the lemons I had set aside

for you. There are ants, black, moldy, stinking, rotting, infesting

in the jars, in the cupboards, in the oven, there are ants

in my shirt, in my skin, in my ears, in my nose,

there are ants

everywhere everytime everyplace in every way everything


The pot is sliced open, and the lid clutters on the floor, and I see

the chicken untouched.

I wipe down the sides and wait.


I run to your house and see fading chrysanthemum petals and not

your face.

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