Curry Chicken

alex desjardins

The deepest scents of curry and spices ooze into the eggshell kitchen

tile.

Tapping on Granny’s icy cold island counter.

Butt firmly planted in a creaky stool from the 70s.

Before I was born. Waiting for roti and curry

chicken.

My little feet swing back and forth, she scrapes food around the large

bronze pot. The sound makes my tummy do backflips and

my toes wiggle.

My big sister doesn’t like curry chicken, she and mommy like Jack in the Box.

Granny lets out a chesty cough and the curry powder stains

the styrofoam plate a brownish green. Her

cough will be cancer.

I’ll only be able to eat it at funerals.

Drowning my sorrows in sorrel

Toeing my solemn fork around green yellow potatoes and

chickpeas While stuffing my gut with bake and roti but-

Today, it’s warm and tastes like swinging my feet in the kitchen.