veena selvan
kitchenette
stuffed the frozen paratha with
kimchi, pulled pork, capsicum,
mayonnaise drizzled in, corners
tucked in — I tucked in
frankenstein burrito fell apart
like a sari
in the absence of my mum,
perfect posture
and safety pins
the best three dollars i ever spent
I wasn’t ready — didn’t know they’d
go so low, so far left. Someone
shaved against the grain on my
triangle. Cut one of several holes.
Then severed that vestigial. Pulled it
through — new improved detachable
umbilical. Pulled it off: a second leg
of my teenage jeggings, red (left my
belly button inside out).
Mum took notes on everything
the nurses said. Cleaned up when I
vomited — right into the bucket but it
overflowed all over me. I told her don’t
worry, it’s such an easy surgery
they let the residents go it alone. Of course
she worried anyway. I’d tried on this warmth
before (fluffy socks), in a package that
had followed me to college once. I left
home when Ollie’s shins were unscraped,
baby fat columns — calf indiscernible
from thigh. He elongated fast. Fusing
bones: less and less there but more
and more visible. He knew all about bones,
red dwarfs — had a new first love
every time I visited. Feathered dinosaurs, then
their great granddaughters (he could name
a bird on sight alone). When adults called
him smart, he shrugged. Said he just knew
lots of facts. He asked why
the scars were in the centre and the left
when appendices are on the right.
I did not know. On my first steps, first walk
in a week, I heard he’d saved up ninety-
eight for a rocket ship. I said I’d bridge
the gap — for the best flower between here
and home (five houses down). He picked me
three. I gave him three. I felt like a god.
Veena Selvan is an emerging writer of the Tamil-American diaspora, based in Aotearoa New Zealand. Navigating life with a complex chronic illness, she writes poetry that explores the domestic, the out of place, and the embodied. Her work can be found in Tarot.