misunderstood spices

coriander rolled toasted
down rue le potat, holding a sprig
of cilantro for the party at chili pepper's place.
hot oiled, aromatic, perfect for
garlic cuddlling or cumin dusting
coriander felt ready for the night.

pepper's place was dark and cool,
all the spices liked it. they could hang
around  and chill, keep to the bottle
keep a lid on it or they could
get wild like sage who came
in a numbered bunch. the other spices
couldn't tell one from the other
so everyone treated as one,
the myriad willowy stems waving
patches of aromatic hair in pom poms
from   various heights .waving to all.
when the fire began, sage was the first
to rush in, hair smouldering,
across the coals. in an instant the air
was burnt sage. and sage the air.

there's always a fire. coriander knew that
from the bottle's temperature, sensitive
to hot and cold vibrations, home was fragile.
when the plunge came, the sudden freedom
from the crowd pushed together-behind glass, same face,
same color,same pressure-was quickly quenched
by the  hot oil sizzle, submersion, emergence
profoundly changed. ready for  mortar, for pestle

coriander knows what the fire means, what sage's
sacrifice portends. soon, garlic will have   skin peeled
from  glorious lobes, scallion(though not technically spices,
  these cousins' trials are much the same)
barely recognisable after the knife, follows.
and ahhhhh there goes cilantro
\into the watermelon thai soup/
 coriander watches  the leaves melt
 the aroma escape,the green wilt, wishes
for eyes to turn away,for tears to shed.

never mind my sweet,
 i will grind your bones
and make my bed.