realising
how much of the inside
is pure slush
the centre more wobbly
than marmalade,
more roiling
than suburban gutters in August rains.
And then later,
a long time later,
the quiet –
but for how long?
Is this what they call dum pukht,
a slow cunning Awadhi simmer
of hormone and nostalgia
and recycled need,
a deep churning
of juices
in the clay innards
of a sealed vessel,
plotting mutiny
one day
but not yet?