Spice
 

I’ve cursed God countless times,

but I have heaven

by the tips of my fingers,

 

fragrant from pinching basil’s

flowering spikes, plucking

a colander of its heady leaves. 

 

Not just basil, but garlic’s holy oil

anoints my three fingers that pressed

the cloves to the cutting board.

 

Bless the perfumes of the earth, and bless

my blasphemies; they are the fresh

ground pepper gracing the finished dish.

 

 

 

Who am I to Keep You Down? 

—for Nathan Apodaca

Deep in the hard fall

pandemic days 

of shutdowns and passed

aways and no kind

of money to upgrade

the bald-tires beater

conking out on the way

to pack potatoes

for the eight a.m. shift

what’s a stiff to do

but grab the backup

longboard and kick it

with a bottle of Ocean 

Spray to sip on the glide

of a blue morning rolling

downhill on the side

of the road all the way

to the warehouse gate

while lip-syncing “Dreams”?