Meora

A child in he corner coughs

mud walls clean and brown

distended stomach could hold a melon,or a sickness

I cannot name

our salesman has oiled hair

but a fresh smile

he will not speak Kumaoni

because he dislikes it’s deep sound.

In Hindi he describes the stoves we sell.

Flies dot the floor like

sesame seeds on bread.

Remember this simplicity.

Remember the quiet and

the silent saturating

scent of smoke.

Remember the smiles,

unabashed displays of missing or damaged teeth

and remember the lines each smile brings around eyes

like a sunrise

creasing a familiar sky.

How language can do so

much but also so little.

Even when you are the other

you are also still the same.

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