Her wrinkled scowl welcomes-
Time uncerimoniuosly.
She squats in front of the fire
As though she owns the element.
Her eyes-defiant, her hair- scanty,
She smells of cinnamon, age and garlic.
The kitchen she tames for a paltry wage.
She washes, she cooks, she assures:
But not her clothes, her food or her babies.
As I watch in horrified fascination,
She stirs into the sweet of my childhood-
Her imagination and angels' dandruff.
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