here

i choose the most symmetrical star 

anise, the most whorled cinnamon stick,

and three tiny cloves, identical. mama boils

heavy sugar down to glittering liquid. she doesn't

need my help, the recipe takes over her body, hands

knowing the words for dice, toss, simmer like a second

language, so i doodle her ingredients, my relentless documenting 

a way of translating that which cannot be spoken, a song without chords.

i hope this finds you someday. i hope what translates is the taste, then the music, then the words.