My Gujarat Girl
She never told me, but I knew
the way she slept in mango trees
and rolled over ripened fruit,
a fragrant mess as she squished
sticky fibers against her flesh
to ensure homeostasis, viability.
Her mother would always ask:
“Darling, where do the fruit flies
come from?” as she bleached
Gujarat guts out of creamy cloth
with her roughest scrubber,
scowling at stains that reminded
her of something she couldn’t
quite recall; a knock unanswered.