Poem with Ginger in it
This rough hooked lump, this botched
antler of a dwarf moose,
this half-melted candelabrum
when skinned and cut
is clean and bright—
sun yellow, in cross section.
Wok full of broccoli,
forkful of forest fire:
Radicle incendiary, light me up.
Strip the paint off my throat
so that for two days, swallowing
my spit will feel like strep.
I love the pharyngeal singe.
I love the medicinal pain
that switches on a siren in my brain
and makes me pay attention
to my food.
Pepper is tepid,
cinnamon impotent.
Galangal, begone,
I’m on a binge—
it’s the heat in my chai,
the kick in my Moscow Mule,
my game-changer,
game-winner,
my aspirin, my acid, my fire in winter,
my pinch of Punjab, my ginger.
