Turmeric

Turmeric

Before the first yoga moms
and golden chai lattes,
the yellow spice was the love
language of my foremothers.
I am small when my Amma
and my Amma’s Amma
smear it over blacks and blues,
dab it where paper has grazed skin,
swirl it into too-warm milk and pots of dal.
Always with sweet nicknames
and Sanskrit prayers.

Soon I grow tall enough
to see over these words,
into their trailing shadows:
doctor’s visits, reluctantly booked
after the aches root deep in our bellies;
the suffering, threaded beneath
the sequins of our ghagra-choli.
I learn how even this spoonful
of sun carries the shadow
of Other People Knowing our brokenness.
For years, I watch pills in amber bottles
cloud with dust, watch my blood
trace the curve of the toilet bowl
and bloom in the water. I memorize
the taste of turmeric. I never know
the taste of the pharmacy.

Bless the straw-haired salesman
at the Palo Alto IKEA, who knows
none of this. Who spots my husband
adrift among the couches, and me,
returning from the restroom.
Who skims our brownness,
points to a camel-leather cushion
and winks: You won’t even see
the too-meric stains
on this one. 

I see my Amma,
and my Amma’s Amma,
scrubbing palms raw after a cook,
sawing turmeric from their nails
as the houseguests circle the kitchen.
The way the salesman circles us,
the way my colitis will always circle me.
I see my hands gripping the shopping cart—
cuticles stained, powder caked on.
I’m neon-loud under the fluorescent light.