by Gideon Burton
The spices sleep in dryness first, hold back
their sweet and heat, restrained in piquant peace.
But cumin is a comin', oil cracks
and spits at onion, garlic; turmeric will grease
the saucy sauce a mellowed, yolky hue.
Then comes the cardamom and cinnamon.
The coriander, ginger, cloves construe
masala's mysteries. A Solomon
could not unweave the embered cooling burn,
foreshadowed by the vapored summons, smooth
upon the patient palate. I must learn
the map, must memorize this gravy's groove.
My senses sense what wisdom tells in force:
Good karma brings sweet korma in its course.
Feel free to copy, imitate, remix, or redistribute this poem as long as you give proper acknowledgment of authorship. Photo: flickr - pyrogenic
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