My grandma says as we knead flour
into pasty dough, besides the carcass
of the old Philips mixer. The lamp
flickers so often I am used to ghosts.
The heat comes in pulses - fraying
tempers, cracking tiles. My brother tries to
resuscitate the fan, motionless since its
untimely demise in the heatwave of 2010.
Two nights ago my womb stopped ticking
along with the house clock. I do not know
how to speak of it; my tongue was lost
years ago in an accident with the blunt knife.
The table rocks as we gather for dinner.
Ma cleaves my heart when she asks about
my daughter. We should renovate the house,
she says, before the baby comes. Old wires
are fire hazards.