The old man had nothing sweet for a small kid to eat,
so I spent my time in the spice cabinet:
evergreen nettles and a fine red powder:
smells and tastes, but never any names.

Despite his age, Dad could never explain
what Christopher Columbus
did with the spices that he stole.

Certainly, they weren’t meant for his food.

So, I emerged tasting of warpaint:
Dark smears on my cheeks, red-eyed,
and I ate my dad’s bland cooking.

I wouldn’t have liked it unless he told me to.

The refrigerator was
all cellophane flesh and frostbitten fruit.
soda from a can,
cake from the store.

I wasn’t thirsty anyway,
but, still that night,
we raided the liquor cabinet
and drank until we saw cinnamon.

Looking at me conspiratorially,
you told me to add as much water back in
as the liquor we put down.

“They can never know how much we stole.”