When my man is under the spell of elusive
raven nights, I carry in my bosom a long
-held secret, in glimmers of the faint
candle-light
I carefully lay my eyes upon the shelves of my
oriental kitchen, laden with my bridal
copper pots & pans, embellished of
emerald peacocks and exquisite
Mughal florets.
My majestic Indian Mortar, Earthen Moroccan
Tagine lay enthroned midst the spice
bazaar, magical herbs gilded like
jewels in the crown of my
Kitchen Empire .
As I stir heavenly liquids against thick walls of
ashen pots the mushroom fumes of blunt
peppers, topaz turmeric soar much high
raising the temperatures of cold
Connecticut nights.
Uncle Sage and Aunty Rosemary sit beside me
all night whispering to me the magic that
will unfold tonight, as I stir the curry
in circles with all my might I often
shed a tear- or so on
my plight ,
The divine basil fills up my senses and assures
that things will go alright, while the ruby
peppers keep raising the temperatures,
and tiny sparkling drops crawls through
neck much to my annoyance.
Lamenting lemon appears, splitting into a glorious
vision of two, infusing with the clear waters
of great American Land quenching my
thirsts with concoction of fabled
lemonade.
As the coterie of spices tinker in the pot, I realize
I need one more ploy and blow a puff of
aphrodisiac Fenugreek to stop the
ensuing battle tonight…
All this and more till oriental sun-rises on my imperial
Kitchen Durbar….