I remember the slap, it’s heat,
Your small hand to the back of mine
Reaching in
(as we cook;
the simmering in our ears,
the aroma in our lungs,
onion tears in our eyes)
to steal from the saucepan,
A piece of meat.
“Let. It. Be,” you laugh,
the mulawo directed upward—
poking air in front of me.
“Let. It. Be.”
Oh so little this slap of mine, it’s heat,
At the back of God’s hand
Reaching in
(as I cook;
the simmering in my ears,
the aroma in my scarred lungs,
lone tears in my eyes)
to steal from this land,
Your soul. A piece of me.
“Let. It. Be,” I whimper,
the prayer directed upward—
palms cupping air in front of me.
“Let. It. Be.”
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