Allspice. Basil. Bay. Caraway. There were mornings
my boy and I spent on the floor pulling herbs and spices
from the drawer. We’d open the jars and close our eyes
and gently sniff. Cardamom. Cilantro. Cinnamon. Dill.
I took out the cayenne and red pepper flakes
and put them up high on an uppermost shelf.
Some agonies are easy to prevent.
We focused on Fennel. Fenugreek. Mint.
Today, he comes home having breathed in deeply
the scent of heartbreak, a jar I would have hidden if I could,
but all of us know it eventually, feel the burn, the inner sear.
Beyond safety, thyme, turmeric, there is fire, and once inhaled,
it hurts everywhere. Eventually we respect the heat as a gift.
Eventually the heart learns to walk through it.