Doodh Pitthi // Cidium
call it // cauldron // earth of winter // cut into //
dough we show // survived daughters // how to dip
// their bodies // in milk // we pray // nandalala is
stealing // makhan // singing // when did I // eat //
// the forest // in this space someone’s // lungs are
being filled // with milk see our // universe //
backgrounded // yashoda aarting cows // mother of
butter smeared hands // shows us love for // a child
does she // even remember // the daughter she
pushed // out her stream of // // face east to offer
// panchamrita // offer the hyoid // feel speech
become // weightless // my mother throws // her
sacrum // cinnamon and vanilla essence // in the
pot // watch how it // // how she tilts // into
floor // drink // don’t // drink // in milk // find //
flooded // daughters // they called it // nourishment
// risk against // tarnished // woman // lala’s
laughter // translucent // a daughter’s body //
floating // my mother says // don’t // let // the
doodh pitthi // settle // it all rises // the sugar // the
milk // the palm // swallow // agni dev when you
take a bite // remember // the first time // you faced
the altar // asked do we feed // on ourselves // how
sweet it tastes // annapurna // filling your creases
with seeds // how you fertilize // into buoy //
daughters // this is how deep should you stir //
enough // to breathe // you // have not // killed me
Copyright © 2024 by Chandanie Somwaru. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on May 10, 2024, by the Academy of American Poets.
“My mother used to make doodh pitthi on Sunday mornings. I had forgotten about how sweet the taste is. After moving away from home, I missed her cooking. I missed watching her break leftover puri with her fingers to throw into the pot. I had tried to find a recipe online and came across a term with a similar pronunciation, doodh peeti, where daughters were drowned in milk. This poem plays on the idea of consuming and being consumed. This poem calls forth the daughters who survive.”
—Chandanie Somwaru