I often break the
dough mid-flap.
it becomes prey
to the oil,
which stares at it
with cat-like eyes.
first, it burns
the part that
is torn and
undefined,
thinned too
much by a
distracted
thought.
And in that
moment,
when
the round
should
have held
its form,
I flinch
at the
supreme
domestic
undoing not
because the
roti broke,
but because
I did again
beneath the
weight
of
something
so simple,
so expected
to be perfect.