Mother’s yearnings

The one time when mother woke up,
yearned for fried fish-
(like her grandmother’s, the green
of the banana leaf wrapping and the yellow
of the bitter mustard and turmeric,
tucked into a pocket in the thatched roof
of their tiny hut, till she was back from school,
pulled by the smell of a hidden treasure)
and father took out his scooter from the shed,
roared he would get the daintiest freshwater fish
for her, no bones, only memories
of her childhood’s taste, I came to know
mothers have yearnings.