I found this poem in “The boundary” by Jhumpa Lahiri, published here.

The second house they lived in was her favorite. A spartan house for most people, but not for her. She had never had many possessions and people used to say she was cold and detached, as if carrying little baggage was an irrefutable sign of her incapability to love. Her…

Lisa lifts the blind a tiny bit, just enough to check if the sun is still high. Her mother told her to stay inside until five, but she can’t read the clock yet, so she goes to the window to see if any of her friends are already out. …

Marta had always wondered why her name was not spelled as all the other Marthas she knew, with an h. When she was about 8 or 9 she asked her mother and she told her that she was named after her great grandmother who had arrived in New York City…

Rule number one of traveling in non-western countries: only eat in restaurants, preferably recommended by reliable guides. And only drink from sealed bottles. These fragrant pakoras are too good. I can see my mother’s look right now, horrified. …

The oil is popping in the pan. Attenta, it’ll burn. She pours the tomato, summer freshness wafting from the glass bottle. Let them sizzle and crackle together until the oil is bright orange and the tomato sauce is thick and their smell has become one. She confidently taps the shell on the edge of the pan. A translucent blob coats everything quickly turning white. A sprinkle of salt leaves its grainy mark