really when i cook, i cannot concentrate on anything

i cut onions –in my underwear
cause it is freakin’ hot

“could be an ad for H&M here” says my daughter
“ha– not quite”

we’re side by side
“wanna slice the mango?”
“yep”
it’s good to have her back for a few weeks

Basquiat in an interview once said
he is afraid the paint comes off one day
cause there are layers upon layers upon layers
in each pic–

“underneath that chicken is a head”
just an example but

i get that
boldly un-transparent
and we only guess

how story after story re-emerges from the depth
&if you put them in a row
like students in a line in the canteen,
carrying a dinner tray piled mountain-high
with what you cannot see
how–

“fresh mint, lime, cilantro–” she reads
&i put black pepper seeds in a granite mortar

“how’s it that black can have so many shades?”

she tells me about her day
about what’s going on at university

“a bit of jeera to–”
“hmmm– that smells good”

&suddenly

the kitchen is too small
to hold the seeds,
the scents,
the way her lips loop sky-ward
when she talks

&all the things that grow way/
Way beyond

imagination