THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.

Amma decided to write a book.

Amma, of clipped word,

tangent to whimsy, seemingly

had tales stashed under her soft tongue.

Of course we laughed about it

over her hot rotis

how she'd crawled into a cavern

of a mid-life crisis

and was basking in footage of lost glory.

Poor thing, she was silent through all our barbs,

having spent years dusting them off like crumbs

at the dinner table.

When we croaked for coffee the next morning, her lips never betrayed a grimace.

Her manuscript arrived just like her little attempts

at internet lingo-an amusing surprise.

"For my husband and two dear daughters,"

the foreword read. "I wasn't sure I could ever be

good enough again, until I walked down memory lane."

And so, we spent evenings poring over passages,

written in a language I never knew she spoke--

tart, like her apple chutney on summer evenings.

In 1984, she had asked the politician who had visited

her campus, "Did you pay your taxes this year?"

Funny how marriage had turned her

into a shape shifter, synthesizing her

into a catalyst for our lives until

she watched us skate past her,

filling the home albums with our stories.

Lucky for us, Amma had an eidetic memory.