Spring 1992 • Vol. XIV No. 2 Poetry |

Mica

Most weekends, surgeons came for lamb and raita, masala, rice and pista-badam custard. American jokes in your Indian accent brought the whole room hiccups. Laughter was your chance to check teeth; wisecracks were, who would have known, a sign of distress—jokes in a new idiom meant the loss of another tongue. Your face looked spent on pure work, a seven-headed panic—patients waiting, clinic full of glass. Doctor, your good nature and dentistry shattered laughs like mica and lab formica: a horde of mirrored smiles became more densely packed over a quarter-acre yard. 

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By Reetika Vazirani

Most weekends, surgeons came for lamb and raita, masala, rice and pista-badam custard. American jokes in your Indian accent brought the whole room hiccups. Laughter was your chance to check […]

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