PUNOMI RAHMAN TITIR

By the flickering stove,

blue potion jars

cradling in-between worn-out fingers

swivelling amidst cracks of skin

meld into warmth.

By the stirring ladle,

blue potion jars

tucked underneath hollow armpit spaces

slipping between stitches of a tattered blouse piece

stream into liquid.

By the brewing cauldron,

blue potion jars

spilled into spread mud vessels

scent of warm coconut

waft through the air.

By the old sorceress,

who plaits my hair

stretched fingers pressing against desert scalp

drenched roots untangled tufts

threaded back.

By the silence that moulds,

my drowsy head rested onto her laps

drift into time

until the snug melts away

like blue potion jars.