Yearning Divine

Amma’s buttery hands are scorched      by the  clawing heat
of the    pot you call matka   and She stirs it with the   finger   that
bears   the rusting crown jewels;   feeding me  bits to taste 
my face curdles   and She knows
it lacks any brittle    mīṭhuṁ    and reaches to her elbows or knees
because salt  can make your dish whole;   The plants of eternity
are braided into Her    coarse fibers of   hair
  and if I were to grab a mouthful   they would smell
  like coconut oil which    She says nourishes    but I disagree
the rich oil  snarls at the edges of   the ashes from the last
time   She cooked    food  and my eyes   water from the linger of 
capsicum and onion;   yet the steam tears at corners of my eyes;
Her   chipping nails   are painted barely with the paste of  iron-oxide
   but is that too cultured?  She snips away at any of my
overgrown insecurity    with Her safety scissors   using the same ones
 to open    the packaged masala She made   when the
Sun was ripe;    Goddess She calls   herself because   she can
swallow the universe whole without gulping or regretting;
but   not in a patronizing way   after all she   leaves that to me
  and the humans 
because   somehow She remains  with a simper about it all
  though so easily    She can   thunder- raging on the    Gods who trample 
her Earth but She is Amma
   I know She gets sad sometimes    for who doesn’t? it counts
more than thrice when the  plastics grow but the animals ebb;
then She is   a royal blue with only bantam   hairs of saffron decorating
Her body; and I cannot help but wonder
if    the tapestries She paints are Her own skin;

Yearning Divine

though somehow the dosas She devours
have little remnants of   faith woven into them;   
from all this I have learned, and  I’m certain,     that somehow
in this mere life; The Divine will yearn.