for Chitra  Divakaruni

 

 

I take stock of the spices

I’ve kept for too long--

 

coriander and cumin,

that catch-all called “curry,”

 

and paprika, accent

that’s always the first earthy

 

syllable, rich as Hungarian

sod swirling into the gulasz.

 

Masala and tandoori powders

a drooping wife might sniff

 

to kindle her passion

for waking back up again,

 

turmeric turning her fingertips

golden, a pinch of it

 

under her lip

like my grandmother’s snuff,

 

balm for aching wrists

after the grating of nutmeg

 

and cinnamon. Cayenne

for cleansing the sinuses.

 

Gesundheit! my grandmother,

framed on the wall by my pantry

 

exclaims! Dump them

simply because expiration

 

dates say so? Gourmet

magazine sneering “Off with their

 

lids, down the drain”?

I won’t do it.  Just let me

 

stand here a little while longer,

inhaling their presence. Their names.