How Oma made it

In her recent widowhood
she finely shreds the cabbage head,
boils eggs to the minute,
fries shallots till the flavors release,
stirs the sweet brine of kecap manis
into an oily peanut sauce
and honors us with gado gado.

Her body top-heavy with age,
her cheeks two rounds of krupuk dough,
I try to picture her in the camp
up before dawn to make porridge
as one child sleeps by the missionaries
and a newborn, undernourished, lies in a pram
freed up when death breezed over.

Here in the peace of her bungalow,
where the door is always on the latch
and the past looks in through sepia,
she welcomes and cooks, lays the table,
says grace as one who knows how,
then serves our meal immediately
as a prisoner would a guard.