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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
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