Kashmiri Kehwa

http://thelongestisland.blogspot.com/2015/07/downtown-brooklyn-journal-of-writing.html

“Hang on,” my mother says softly

                     “I am arranging the table.”

I look on while she pours Kehwa

to fondle the ceramic sides of the cup.

The saffron antennas of Kehwa

sleek nectar of saffron

twigs, gold rods/and coral/

a color yellow to orange

like a kaleidoscope, that alloys

the hints of cracked cardamoms

against their own amber

or taste as pomegranates

full and fine of the lilacs

sweet to tongue and sound to eye

 Or morsels like almond pearls

and beads of the rosary

film rising to the top

Or bamboo-like cinnamon sticks hazel with tinge

fresh from the vine.

                                                                     Its framework a glitter

                                                                                        of ashen-gold porcelain cup

                                                                                                                              over saucer.

                                                                      

 My father sitting across from me

                                             tips the cup up, sips the last of it.

                                                                It is the saffron vineyard room

                                                                                                                                                      

                                                                                    not far from red-gold fields

                                                                                     where ashen sparrows peck at cherries—

  their copious meal

a genteel wazwan in rose-water—

melted minced meat

flavor blown

that tastes

rista : coral lamb/ mini ovals.

                                                    It’s the seasoned vineyard field

                                                                   not far from our saffron room

                                                                   where the ceremonial gustuba lamb balls sizzle,

sheets of yogurt smoke soaring from it

everyday

            through the Sun that hangs at noon and sets at night  

everyday

            through a yoke of tangerine that soothes mingled flavors

everyday

            through a rising tide of fragrances that last and swell.

Everyday

      everything becomes a yoke of tangerine.