the sweet chill of those fireproof mornings
in harmony with posies and turmeric tulips stitched to
my conscience oozing with formaldehyde
with a refrain singing of Indian cuisine
the forgiveness of my mother’s honeyed perfume lurking in the wings
ever-familiar, everlasting.

They tore the tree down to make way for a new road
but the Honda driving past it remains
its epitaph quietly resting
in a glass jar.