White lilies,
are brewed in cardamom and milk,
My Ama* places pistachios in the pan to prepare as I sleep,
Her nut butter tongue a fragment of who I wish to be,
Says this infusion can be seen as the waterfall lamenting in my chest,
flushing the burns out of me,
antiseptic to the hurt,
a Spring Cleaning.
My insides bending into Fluid,
an unshaping of contours,
a shift into the borderless,
my own flesh colonised, again,
Pearly moon mist is found between a cracked sternum,
With vines and roses twisted around each rib,
All with Rounded mouths speaking in the language of petals,
A dialect of Colour,
whispering like shoulder angels,
A divergent perspective,
Combustion of self to leave behind this flow,
This viscious material that doesn’t hold between chest,
This fluid yet smokey substance,
My unknown,
I am in the parlour
cooking up my soul in the clouds.
- Ama = Mother, a name given to my Grandma