And This Is about Pain Too

Realizing
how much of the inside is pure slush
the centre more wobbly
than marmalade,
more roiling
than suburban gutters in August rains.
And then later,
a long time later, the quiet -
but for how long?
Is this what they call dum pukht, a slow cunning
Awadhi simmer of hormone and nostalgia
and recycled need,
a deep churning of juices
in the clay innards of a sealed vessel,
plotting mutiny one day
but not yet?