Waste

My grandmother cut the skin from fruit 

so thin, even that minimum, not wasted

fed to the cow. The mangoes she sliced tasted

like kisses after quarrels, transmuted

And she bargained hard with the man who sold

fish he'd caught and brought, small, silver 

in the basket, slivers of the river

cooked with grated coconut, eaten whole.

When I was naughty, she would bargain

to lessen how many whacks I should be given

She used to pray that my sins were forgiven

so I could be with her in heaven

I have nothing of hers, except a photo 

Her gaze, out of deep shadow

pierces. It takes me by surprise

that I have her eyes.