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Burning Rice
I did not mean to burn the rice tonight.
‘Planting rice is never fun’ – generations
of men, women and children ankle-deep
in padi fields, bent double at the waist,
immersing seedlings day after day.
Finally, the harvest: sharp scythes glinting
in the afternoon sun, stalks of ripened grain tossed
into baskets strapped onto backs like babies too young
to walk. Next, the rice huller, churning husks
away from the hearts. Then the long hours polishing
each dark grain into pearly white. I’d forgotten
that brown rice needed more than double
the usual measure of water. I smelt the charring,
then saw: scorched rice like black gold,
my ancestors’ ashes in a bowl.
Planting rice is hard work, as generations
of people, ankle-deep in fields, bent over,
immersing seedlings day after day, know.
Finally, the harvest: sharp tools shining
in the sun, ripe grain stalks tossed
into baskets carried like babies.
Next, the rice huller removes husks
from the grains. Then, long hours are spent polishing
each dark grain to a pearly white. I forgot
that brown rice needs more than twice
the usual amount of water. I smelled it burning,
then saw: burnt rice like black gold,
my ancestors' ashes in a bowl.