I opened the jar and the turmeric spilled

I opened the jar and the turmeric spilled

like a handful of dust from a country of heat.

The pantry is dark and the radiator’s chilled,

but the smell of the cumin is heavy and sweet.

My mother’s handwriting on the masking tape curls,

listing phone numbers I no longer call.

We’re just a collection of displaced girls,

carrying passports that don't matter at all.