#550 Lost Chickpeas

Turmeric stains my fingers yellow,
real tears adding salt that this curry doesn’t need.
I replay the words
over and over       and over
in my head—
they roll
around like chickpeas
                                          on the floor.

There are traces     of you     in this kitchen
if you know where to                                        look—
cloves I don’t bother using
and plastic bags full of red lentils.

I serve up recipes that I pretend you’ve taught me.
In the
back of my mind I know,
I shouldn’t be mad that you died. But you
left before you told me
the secret recipe for your falafels
and mine just don’t taste the same.

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Ashlee-Ann Sneller is a Wellington-based poet who grew up rurally. The only animal she now owns is her poetry. Such beasts can be found in places like Turbine | Kapohau, Mayhem, and Fast Fibres Northland.