Yamini Krishnan
Volume 1 | Issue 7 [November 2021]

I dream of the smell of starch at midnight—

when we are the best kind of drunk, someone

I love saying I love cocktails it’s like drinking juice

and then you’re happy all of a sudden—

and suddenly food is transformed,

from monstrous and calorie-ridden at worst,

fuel-like  at best, to something euphoric,

 like light flooding out of a cast-iron pan,

reflecting onto  our faces, made silly and loose

and pliable by a half-bottle of whatever we have

on hand. And it’s easy to stay happy

when we eat together, as the glow of

alcohol fades into the cool air of

a mumbai winter night— I like that

we’ve sacrificed hot pasta for

communal eating and we’re quiet, only

the sound of forks and teeth, like it isn’t about

the food or the lightheadedness,

instead it’s everything else.