Spice is seined from frowning earth
into loaves of flavor and celebration.
is grated from dermis.
Sap has hardened. Cinnamon bark
yips wakened morsels down edges
of my geometric shadows:
rot, you unshapely ellipses.
Our roots expanded. They chipped
the fruit bowls. Medicate on ginger.
Our processes are wintry.
We’ll ripen out of season.
We solidify. Crumble. They tasted
so stale. We peel so softly. Shame.