I don't mean when a movie ends，

    as in， it's a！ Nor tortillas splitting

    with the heavy wet of bean.

    And I don't mean what you do

    with your lavender robe all fluff

    and socks to snatch the paper

    from the shrubs¹. Nor the promise

    of a gift， the curl and furl of red ribbon

    just begging to be tugged². What I mean

    is waiting with my grandmama （a pause

    in the Monsoon³） at the Trivandrum airport

    for a jeep. Her small hand wraps

    again the emerald green pallu of her sari

    tucked in at her hips⁴， across her breast，

    and coughs it up over her shoulder a hush⁵

    of paprika and burnt honey across my face.