Our rice comes from the field behind the kitchen,
our milk from the cow down the road...
In the morning, a little girl comes with her bag full of glass jars.
Unscrewed, poured into the silver pan the cook's set out for her.
The milk is bright white,
thick cream clinging.
Here, military men stop our bus on the way to Kathmandu-
look inside our vats of egg curry-
above the seats for bombs.
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