Chapatti

Her callused fingers
plow flour. A clock 
pendulum annoys her. 
‘Anon’, he’s impatient

before the plate. Her
sweat creates a moon
in wheat. A soft thing
is transformed by a hot

experience. It swells
like the belly of a 
pregnant lady. Kitchen
heat disfigures beauty.

Dark spots appear
slowly. Steam, 
like anxieties of an
exploited wheat farmer, 

rises up from the chest
of chapatti. ‘Dry chapatti’, 
he utters his distaste. It 
wets with concealed tears.






(Chapatti is a flat round South Asian bread.)

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