Filling Spice Jars as Your Wife
By Kai Coggin
It seems like all my poems
after this will be different,
they will hold a different weight
like how the weight of my heart
has shifted into indistinguishable float,
into lifting cloud,
into weightless flight tonight
as the rain gently falls
on the summer-heated tin roof,
the din of casual raindrops
and warm low lights glowing
and wind blowing through the house,
we have all our doors and windows open.
We have all our doors and windows open
and I am pouring spices into glass jars,
coriander cinnamon cumin ground sage
and it’s hard to describe this
moment in the confines of a page,
tiny hills of vibrant color
and intoxicating fragrance
and you hear the cadence
of my heart
from the kitchen
where you build the perfect fitting slip-in shelves
for our spices over the stove,
match the colors,
match my colors to yours,
I have all my doors and windows open to you.
I have all my doors and windows open to you
and you have come all the way inside,
sat down at the table of my deepest desires
and lit a fire to warm us both,
the wind blowing through the house,
the rain gently giving way
to turmeric sunrise
and you, darling,
you are my wife.
You are my wife
and it’s like I have been waiting
my whole life
to say those words,
and I feel held in a way
I have never felt before,
to look down at my fingers
dusted with ginger and thyme
and see the gold of my wedding band
glint and shine in the warm low light glow,
I am yours
and you are mine,
promised on Zoom in our garden
of giant zinnia and hummingbird vines,
sung out in the morning song of bluebirds,
this union that ripples love out to the world
and infinities back into us again
love—
in the fine powder of these spices,
ground up essence of oregano and basil,
I see our love in every atom suddenly
and every cell in me finally exhales,
and perhaps that is the wind.
Perhaps that is the wind
blowing through the house,
this release of eternal searching
and finding you there,
calling me your forever,
naming me your always,
to have and to hold,
till death do we part and start all over again
looking only for each other’s hearts,
taking my life in your hands eternal,
marrying me to the heavens,
latching me to the star-trail of your white dress,
in this orbital dance,
this lift and spin,
this knowing from within
that all my poems after this will be different
because you are my wife.
