Molding

Grace Chhetri

With sun tinted hands she would take the sweat from inside of me
Wrapping them in a shawl around herself
The noise from the world would blend into her singing and as it cooked inside the kettle
her skirt would fold love onto me
Layers and layers of love
would
stick on my face like mud on the rice field 

When the kettle came to a stop

and her cracked hands poured out the tea filled with herself
She would slather coconut oil on my hair
and strength would flow out her fingers and wrap themselves in braids
Her warm skin was the home to a garden
valleys grew around her mouth and her eyes watered them when she no longer had more to give
Her voice commanded avalences
but it never snowed
made up by stories no language could ever tell
She lived in silence 

she was
doused in the smell of the land that didn’t want her

Sticky with longing
Sweet with love

arms always an open gate