By Roshni Riar, Staff Writer
Auntie always amazed me with her endless bag of tricks
in the kitchen stories flowed from her fingertips, each one a little better.
How did she build this house with cinnamon sticks?
Tiny bruises dotting her arms from too tight grips
the shadows of men who’ve done nothing but mislead her.
To ease the pain, she’d reach fearlessly into her bag of tricks.
Don’t worry, adding some sugar is a sure-fire quick fix
to heal the sting on your tongue from the unwanted bitter.
She told me once this house was made with cinnamon sticks.
When she was alone, I’d watch her break out from his eclipse
spinning rotis and crushing pods of cardamom and black pepper.
Auntie always amazed me with her endless bag of tricks.
Did she ever wonder if these walls would be stronger with bricks?
She didn’t care for strength when the scent brought her pleasure.
I can’t help but wonder why she made this house with cinnamon sticks.
When her spice jars went empty, she’d stand with her hands on her hips,
the clock ticking towards an unwanted dinner as her forehead grew wetter.
Auntie always amazed me with her endless bag of tricks.
Forget popsicles, this house was made with cinnamon sticks.
