Auntie

My Aunt’s hands are soft and brown
and they smell like cumin and coriander.
She is a gardener in the kitchen.

Auntie, I remember your skin
the way some people remember the bus route.
I know I need to trace it to go home.

The world of work, bus bells and sirens
are harsh alarm clocks.
I would rather wake gently,
in 5 am light,
to your softly whispered duas
welcoming the morning.