Harika Kottakota

Samosa Kitchen

The staccato of potatoes

Sizzling in ghee

Dances with nostalgic aromas, 

Masala, ginger, turmeric dashes, 

My mother’s knuckles crack

As she kneads, pummels dough

Her palms redden against

The dull rolling pin 

Her eyes dilated, as always, 

Stuffing tetrahedrals for hours 

When she plops them into oil,

A new heterophony begins

My mother’s tiny grin

Submersed in steam