Unaccustomed

Unaccustomed

The package arrives.

It’s her first time my

mother has sent a parcel

abroad. My name

with an extra Miss

bends and leans, shares

odd spaces and

makes my name

unfamiliar.

The customs

declaration label

says comft, missing

its i after f,

reminding me of

comfort. Inside,

carefully wrapped with

the daily newspaper are

homemade cookies, all baked

into the alphabet, cracked

after transit.

At night
when I snack on these

reading Jhumpa Lahiri,

I pick up the chipped i,

guessing and rotating it

and look for

the other half

like a toddler with bricks.