she carries fire in her hands. fingers covered in calluses and courage,
unflinching as the flame dances near her face. the kitchen pots

clatter and the pressure cooker screeches a sad cry, while the griddle
sizzles and her hands maneuver and make magic through this music

she creates in the scorching summertime, serves mango pulp with parathas,
iced lassi, coconut cracked on sidewalk, and corn rubbed with chili and lime.

when it rains, a vat of oil bubbles with pakoras, caramelized onions heat
to a crisp and gol gappay float in a bowl at the table amidst clapping thunder.

she creates in winter, with frostbitten hands, instant coffee whisked until frothy
and sweet, drops egg whites in soup, and lets chestnuts crackle in the oven,

a brown bag with jagged shells from roasted peanuts slumps on the counter.
in her face, I see other brown women–on the other side of the Hudson, pushing

a Key Food cart instead of Pathmark, women across bodies of water
pushing, as they brace the changing seasons, sauntering into their homes.

there, tucked in some dusty bookshelf must be a recipe book filled
with what to cook, what to expect, and accept during the storms,

during the blizzards and hurricanes, the droughts and heatwaves,
how to celebrate the lost, and how to hold fire by the fistful.