Her callused fingers plow flour. A clock pendulum annoys her. ‘Anon’, he’s impatient before the plate. Her sweat creates a moon in wheat. A soft thing is transformed by a hot experience. It swells like the belly of a pregnant lady. Kitchen heat disfigures beauty. Dark spots appear slowly. Steam, like anxieties of an exploited wheat farmer, rises up from the chest of chapatti. ‘Dry chapatti’, he utters his distaste. It wets with concealed tears. (Chapatti is a flat round South Asian bread.) First published in The Literary Hatchet by Pear Tree Press.