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Writer's pictureBasudhara Roy

Culinary Love

I culled once words for you,

and soaked them for eons

in the warm water of my love,

till they sprouted green,

tender shoots of belonging.


But you dismissively said,

you disliked the mess,

those fibrous tangles of

language and emotions,

demanding neater ingredients,

some less-original recipe.

Obedient, I dipped virgin words

in love’s formless batter

and in oils of heated passion,

fried them whole.


But the insides, you complained,

had remained tender, and

the crunch was missing.

I took then to buying words -

pasteurized - to coating them


with thick spices of pretence,

and baking them dark.

You liked, I noted,

words better for being staler.

The dressing of irony

you preferred to ingenuity;

and consumed lustily unconcerned,

the thick lacings of sarcasm.

I laugh now as I buy words

dressed for use,


frozen, measured, packaged.

This laughter of a bereaved

lactating bosom consumed with

the constant ache of words

unasked for, unshed.


- from Moon in My Teacup (2019)


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