To the Lost Art of Love

The flutter of a smattering of mustard, baby onions, and curry leaves

sizzling in a rickety kadai

that’s been held by many hands over the years

and fed many hungry stomachs

and souls.

Can you hear that noise

can you hear the sizzle

as you read this?

then you have known the kind of love I write about.

not the the kind that is tempered with salt and pepper

and a drizzle of olive oil

served in ceramic and porcelain dishes

placed on Chantilly lace.

this thing I speak of

this soul food

is the closest you can come to describing love

to the real thing

not the kind you find in chocolate boxes

tied with satin ribbons

filled with treats carefully assembled in military precision

in sterilized factories

where everything is celebrated for looking the same

and that’s the unique selling point.

my love is filled with every emotion

imperfections and cuts and bruises

that somehow add to their beauty

raw and unfiltered in every way

like your favorite dish from your mama’s kitchen

that you can taste, smell, feel, and touch

in your mind’s eye

even if you’re a thousand miles away.

my love is complete surrender

annihilation of all else but that moment

like when lips touch flavor

or your tongue savors taste

this isn’t about satiety or nourishment

just pleasure

or nothing

that is all there is

bring me that love

or I will remain hungry

and be deemed foolish by the others

who spent their life eating insipid dishes in pretty crockery

I’ll pass on

this kind of love

she is not for me.