Tomato Paste

Like me 

when the tomato left 

its native land 

it was scattered 

across the seas.

Every home claimed it.

Every home 

chopped and diced

its taut unbranded skin

with cold metal:

its juices spilling on the

marbled altar of 

tradition and

enterprise.

But goodness feeds on sacrifice:

so, I will grind this tomato smooth

with garlic, ginger, and onions-

and I will fry this paste in the pan

till oil bleeds from all its sides-

and then they will sniff me out

and then will crinkle their noses

and then tell me

This is so authentic 

and then tell me

This is so wholesome

and I will tell them 

not to worry:

I use the cans they sell 

at the Indian store.

So, I won’t explain how 

it’s made from scratch: 

flavoured with 

my mother’s complaints 

that something is missing.