By Steven F. Klepetar
We have eaten another meal, here at the eastern
shore of dreams, spoken our names to bread
and knives and tea. Rolling towards each other
words spill and mingle in the air, burst against
bottle and plate, spatter and dance against walls.
Our kitchen trembles, we touch at the border of
teeth and scent. Never has food tasted so
like jewels, opulent and hard, engorged with curry
and ghee, driven along a river of pepper, cardamom
and lime. Senses on fire, our hair tangles in this wild
embrace. How these flavors sing in our mouths,
calling ancient rhythms of spice and root, melodies
of onion, grass and bulb. Lost in our hunger’s gale,
we sail out into night. Every breath burgeons,
lingering on our tongues like the fierce taste of drums.