matti By Palak Parikh


in mama’s language matti                               means soil
blessed cow shit brewed with             matti to make clay because how
else to reassure                       nana and nani and that long ass extended family

pink american baby                                                                                         is brown and hindu

the white man shifts away                            as asphalt fingers reach for
cheerios at trader joes                                the chinese woman asks me                if

chicken kebab samosas are good
eat animals                  we use every                           part of the banana
the virgin
green for aloo masala because                       god forbids                  potato
on prime dates                            we didnt have the mature        honeyed

banana that youtuber                           puts in purple smoothies                                 mama
severed burnt ones

let them rot it              cows milk        ripe bananas
flamed in oil not sweet                                       like the ones at trader joes      but smothered with

cumin garam masala

pepper matti    indians never waste banana peels       tempered chutney

that looks like a bead                                                                                      of doughy matti

one she’s been             kneading for days                               bangles on

seeping            into my soul with every bite                                           the wronged wreaths of moist matti forge                                 wedding rings over my nail beds

seventeen years later still        covered in grime and              matti

or whatever

a squishy coral like     stomping in soft matti                         gossamer crap fondling my flesh in camouflage                        like that pink              american baby

before they besmeared            matti

licking                                     the mulched chutney wrapping its bodice                                 to find dulcet chords sweeter than those cheerios and                  banana chips

yes it looked                                        like crap

but anyone at trader joes                     would love a bite                                            of matti

By Palak Parikh


Palak Parikh is an emerging Indian-American writer from the San Francisco Bay Area. She is intrigued with writing as a means to foster female empowerment and connect with first generation Americans. She often explores topics like feminism, race, and cultural mongrelization. She has been recognized by the California State PTA and Alliance for Young Artists & Writers. When she is not writing, Palak enjoys drinking coffee and trying new exotic foods!

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