Spice For A Better Life

Spice For A Better Life

That's what the paper label haphazardly stuck to the plastic tub says, anyway.
I bought it on a trip to the spice market where I felt your absence as keenly
As if God had taken my rib in my sleep,
As if He'd dipped his fingers into me
the way I longed to dip mine into the barrels of quinoa and lavender.
The spice market -
Such a wild, Zanzibar name for a cinderblock stall in the middle of Soulard
Its high glass counter laying a sheen over the cheeses and smoked meats,
Smelling like reading a world atlas for noses.
Such a name for the place where I buy the "good"coffee
And little plastic tubs with crooked labels
So I can make garam masala.
"That one," the pale froglike woman said, "is new.
That's got all the things the AMA says you need to be healthy."
I've been dusting it over everything for two months now.
It's why even our salads taste like garlic
And there's a permanent rime of cumin under my nails.

I can't tell you about the plastic tub,
Of course,
Because you'll start with saying "The Spice is the life!"
Which will turn into a discussion of Jodorowsky
And love of art so deep it doesn't just ignore the confines of practicality
It reshapes the world to fit its octagonal wheel.
We'll talk about that documentary and
Because I can never even say the word without doing it,
My terrible Werner Herzog impression
Will make you laugh until you feel the ache in your missing rib, too.

Or maybe until you puke.

So

I can't tell you about the plastic tub,
Of course,
Because my logic is your ladder
Which doesn't shake when your hands do.
And love is nothing compared to how strong you are
It reshapes the world, makes me long to be your fingerhold.
We'll talk about planting basil and mint to harvest next year
Because we can't plan for anything but mojitos
My terrible fear masked with sachets of confidence that
Will make you dip your fingers into my ribs and climb.

Or maybe you'll lift me over your head like the Palme D'or.

So
Tonight's dinner is,
Always is,
Two ribs pulled by force and marinated in the
Spice For A Better Life
With dessert to follow at 3 AM
When I use the shaking marble mortar and pestle I bought,
Hoping there would someday be a you,
To crush beans of the "good" coffee
With mint you planted before you took that first climb
And all the things the AMA says you need to be healthy.
With my Zanzibar henna paste on my fingers,
I'll draw the whole story on your back in bed
Of a love that ignores the confines of my logic when it must
Because reading the book at this stage
Would just ruin our vision for the rest.