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. 

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“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