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To Sunday

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I put my hand in my eye after chopping up chilles.
I guess that’s what comes
when I succumb to worldly woes.
I am Tita:
Like Water for Chocolate
my kitchen knows how to paint the picture of my heart.
I went to start something simple
just to soothe an ache inside:
red split lentils and plain boiled rice
that shouldn’t have taken so long.
But then a song came on that triggered too much
and out came the onion
cardamom
cloves,
cumin and coriander
into a pot that seemed to know
more than I could ever say.
Dal that tastes like fury and
spiced rice heavy like Nina Simone;
basmati as the marrow of cinnamon bones and
bay leaves that keep nothing away.
Maybe
if Slavens had played some other track
this too-long day would have stayed off my stove
out of my stomach and
not made it to my pen without consent.
Julia Kent and her bow
wouldn’t be keeping me awake and
I could forsake the soft glow of my teddy-bear lamp-

but it’s Sunday…
Delay
dancing through the air of empty rooms.

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