Your father was felled by a giant teak
one purple morning, in the damp
of the forest’s aching mouth.

Your mother hears it a mountain away,
a rush of air sweeping from his lungs,
last broken, holy offering of her name.

The house, now wild with her grief,
grows fibrous roots.  Each empty room
smells deep and sharp as ginger.

After the burying, 
your aunts undress you, show you 
which roots to cut and which to keep.