The Opposite of Home

by Kayal Vizhi

At the Marathana bazaar, I wait for pa.

He brings with him the scent of street,

a brittle smell, the opposite of home,

nothing that could belong in my mother’s kitchen,

amidst the loud hands of aunties,

their unlit talk, the ticking clock.

The heat from the bodies of the rice

merchants is soft fleshed, I sink my teeth

into it until it swelters on my tongue

like a new name. I become someone

else, not the daughter who left home

but some faraway thing without kin.

The dusk, perfumed by the workers’ hands

hauling cinnamon barks into jute sacks,

turns to gold. I begin here, in this feral

solitude. My alone is my own,

not my mother’s or her mother’s.

I am aware of my body but not its limits.

My collarbones are a geography of blue,

searching for another grammar, not land,

not men. My desire travels where this body

cannot go, towards the narrow darkness

of alleys, open windows above streets,

lingering long enough to leave a stain

in telephone booths, dim cafes,

evening parks laced with lovers.

But pa drives us home. Arriving

outside the house, caught like sillago

by the bristling net of voices inside the kitchen,

I am a daughter once more - such loss.