poetic interlude #6: cooking as mother nature stirs, or the spice of life

With the murmur of raindrops

against a thatched roof, 

charcoal and coriander seep into the air, and she sits

wrapped in stiff, bright textile,

fingertips

coated in the scent of cumin and garlic,

grabbing the dull blade

to shape a soft, green pepper,

carrot shavings fly from the bowl,

slices of onion pierce the senses, bringing tears,

and the rain falls fervently as the herb-laden steam

rises into her

nose

she grabs the dough

like it is her own child, firm and fast,

flips it in the cradle: a dark, ferrous pan,

she brings mortar to pestle, then takes

the spice of the earth and brings it to her

mouth

then thyme and parsley,

partially losing time,

the herbs turn to a thin paste

with deep, sustained pressure

she knows the food is ready when she feels

hands

wrapped around her stomach,

softly rubbing circles around her navel,

a gut feeling, a prophecy, a warning,

almost like water breaking.