The exhaust fan whirred behind us:
a soft, steady hum, the waft of milk

simmering for hours on low heat.
Sundays my mother extracted

desi ghee from sour leftover curd.
I recall clearly even now, moth wings

turned amber beneath the sun,
the kitchen window left ajar.

My mother’s jaunt nose mirrored
in my brother, bones small as eyelashes

littered across my plate. I don’t know
what they imagined I wished for,

only that I did not wish for it.
For so long, I wanted simply to write

a poem in which I no longer exist.
In this one, slowly I rose, the labour

of my mother’s breaths expanding
as she declared she never loved me,

and how calmly I returned my dinner
from stomach to plate: wild trout fish.