Our rice, comes from the terraced slopes behind the kitchen,
our milk, from the cow down the road.
In the mornings, a little girl in a dirty flowered skirt brings
her bag of glass jars.
Unscrewed, poured into the metal pan Acha Puri’s set out
for her.
Bright white,
thick cream clings.
Here, the military men stop our bus on the way to Kathmandu—
look inside our vats of egg curry—
above the seats for bombs.
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