I don't trust myself
to eyeball things
in the kitchen.

Here & here alone,
I follow directions
by the gram
by the teaspoon
by the digital settings
of slate grey appliances
testing a fuse box 
across the house 
in my son's walk-in closet.

Elders on both sides
trusted the measure
of the body -- 
a pinch, a handful.
The volcanic molcajete,
the cast iron,
the sputtering flame -- 
atavistic tools
for our daily bread.

They tasted
they saw
the goodness.

Sometimes their DNA
reveals itself
walking my little
postage stamp of a world.
My hand grazing
an eruption of TX sage,
lingering on a spike
of suburban rosemary.

The body re-members
the spice of life.

Written in community with VerseLove, a group of mostly educators writing a poem every day of April (National Poetry Month). The prompt for today: Write a free-verse poem inspired by spice.