My grandma never talked about the matters
of the heart or complicated feelings.
She hadn’t heard of Freud, or Buddha, or Quran,
and could not quote from Bible.
But half-way through the day
she would pour out the ready curdled milk
from the old clay jar to eat.
Rinse out the jar but gently, lukewarm, she said,
For you want the goodness attach onto the walls.
Then she poured in fresh foaming milk
Into cracked heirloom clay
And set it on a wooden bench to curdle.
Just never close it.
Never close the vessel, was her warning.
For when it’s closed,
The milk turns bitter.