I don't mean when a movie ends，
as in， it's a！ Nor tortillas splitting
with the heavy wet of bean.
And I don't mean what you do
with your lavender robe all fluff
and socks to snatch the paper
from the shrubs. Nor the promise
of a gift， the curl and furl of red ribbon
just begging to be tugged. What I mean
is waiting with my grandmama （a pause
in the Monsoon） at the Trivandrum airport
for a jeep. Her small hand wraps
again the emerald green pallu of her sari
tucked in at her hips， across her breast，
and coughs it up over her shoulder a hush
of paprika and burnt honey across my face.