licky fingers

by waaseyaa'sin christine sy

five minutes ‘til the stuffed portabella mushrooms are done and you can’t wait because although you don’t really like mushrooms unless they’re in a sauce glowing in a decayed tree or in a hard-to-find obscure book about anishinaabe wajash med’cin that nobody really cares about except you and probably two other people in the world (because all the other people who used to care are dead) you do really like what’s being served on the side the squinch that the smell of freshly chopped coriander and more freshlier squeezed lime triggered when it permeated your noise and olfactory bulb launching your brain into gleeful convulsions followed by a sweet release not unlike la petite mort

and really
who doesn’t dig
a little death
in the middle
of a spirit moon

drab with hardly any snow (where did gabiboonike go?) even though the blood curdling scream of lime juice in the raw paper cut on your left index finger that you got flipping through your first edit on a draft response to some normalized woman-hate in social media indian country and the burn-tingle in the one day old cardboard cut you got on your right pinkie finger stuffing some late christmas gifts for x on behalf of the perfect makoons you both created you don’t care because right after you stirred that juice into the brilliant green heaven polka-dotted with red fruit and got some on four fingers (so thorough you were in the stirring) and you had to lick that homemade off leaving sticky making licky fingers a lovely little bit of don’t-take-the-down-side-shii-so-serious-ly squee in post-triggered day

where you sit back, take a dip, let the taste of cool on a hot summer day cover tastebuds think about that little blues bar the green door seen on sunday reach over to spotify and wonder if the old anishinaabeg would like this dish, how they would say guacamole and freedom in the language

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