We wander into the kitchen
you lead with “dis way”
the moon in the window
big as clotted cream in the soup.
The keeper of all great mysteries
opens its jaws to let us in.
“pice?” you ask and point.
“yeah,” “loogat dat,” “gookie,”
“nana,” and everywhere “dat”
a finger showing the way.
We stand in the pale light
Nutmeg. Cinnamon . . .
The house sleeps and I lose thought
of your weight as though the moon
carries you too and makes you and the ocean
light as ethers and I could stay here
all night naming jars and smelling
your perfect, perfect skin
while you forge language
out of this heavenly domesticity
out of glass jars and exotic dark spice.
Turmeric. Paprika. Thyme.