A meeting of the kitchen minds
through herbs: oregano and thyme
to be specific; and some lime
to sprinkle with the curry powder
as the kettle whistled louder.
I would pause to whip the cream
while you crushed garlic and my dream
of you and me and some fond scheme
to cook unto a ripe old age,
till all our spices turned to sage.
But you, you had been scorched before
and now you choose to burn no more
and won’t look past the kitchen door,
so while I simmered you kept calm
and pierced right through my heart of palm.
Deceived and blessed by too much wine
the mound of noodles made me blind,
mistook for love what just was kind—
consumed the pit but not the date,
and feasted on an empty plate.
(Words and photo by Sarah Hinlicky Wilson… actually the poem was by Sarah Hinlicky, a long long time ago. I ended up liking the poem better than the person it was written about. Which just goes to show.)