She’s always wanted to travel.
Flipping through inherited copies
of National Geographic, this island
there and that mountain here.
By the shores of an unpronounceable
country. Or gaping at some supposed
temple built 2000 bloody years ago.
At nine though, she didn’t know
that the world at large eats mostly
meat. That apparently fish
is the same as sea weed for some.
Tired, she looks at the moon. She
saw some marvelous ancientness
today, and her stomach growls.
Sick of fruits and salad heaps.
The closer she looks, the moon
looks like a beautiful soft dosai,
or a bowl of curd-rice. The world,
is hardly ready for Tam Brahm