|Allyson Kalea Boggess|
|Home||She eats curry on Saturdays
Cayenne and coriander seed help her breathe.
She burns cooking oil on high, dumps
chopped yellow onion into the skillet,
hangs her head over the steam.
The recipe calls for ground turmeric.
As she pinches the powder on the cutting
board, it stains her skin and nails yellow.
She browns garlic and ginger and lamb for dinner.
against a wooden pew, admire the pot of orchids
on the altar, and reach for bread with stained
touched them before he left
Last night she learned how to play seven-card stud,
how to see his ten and raise it twenty, how to split
pistachio shells with her fingernails.
She said they tasted like knots of cured wood,
slivers of smokehouse planks. She fanned
her cards and slicked hickory skin with her
He smiled and splayed his cards over the rug, raking
his hands over the pile of copper between them.
He said his heart flush beats her two pairnines and threes.
She said wait. Nines are wild.
when the overhead lighting in the booth
at Dennys casts a sallow glow
upon the plastic picture holder you
will pull from your wallet ten years from now
and hold out to your colleague while
waiting for the waitress to deliver.
The cracked plastic, yellowed with years
will not do your youngest daughter justice.
It will pale herdull her heavy
mahogany eyes and neutralize her smile.
Your colleague will still squint and nod his head.
He will still chuckle, She looks just like her daddy,
and linger his lower lip a few seconds too
long over his coffee cup. When you graze
the stub of your fingernail over the plastic filter
of her image you will wonder
what it is that causes you to pause.
The waitress will bring your
breakfast on freshly washed ceramic. Three eggs,
two strips of writhing bacon,
an English muffin. Your colleagues waffles
will not suffer long, but your eggs will anguish
and congeal in your silence.
It is in the corners of her mouth, you will think. The way her
eyelashes curl up at the edges.