Member Poem

The women bending and pounding in rhythm
was a vibrant bucolic sight. The long wooden
pestles were powered by the human current.

While grinding raw rice,
they stopped to rest, and
to crack jokes, which were
embellished with erotic

connotations, and were worthier than today’s
TV humors. They made turmeric and coriander
powder, when their delightful nasal tunes vibrated

through the powdering
thunder. Chili particles
provoked their nostrils.
Sneezing was soothing.

They crushed herbs and roots, medicinal wonders.
Their minds, too, were muscular. The mortar and
the pestles have been discarded in a nook of the

present. The modern
ladies prefer powder
packets, albeit adulterated
or preserved in poison.

First published in The Literary Hatchet.