Whenever the scent of chili pepper enters my nostrils,
my mouth waters like a pavlovian dog.
I know I will chew silently, joyfully, and voraciously
on soft grained rice smothered with dripping
tomato stew and fresh hen.
Before a thought enters my mind,
the bowl is nearly empty, with only
licks of stew left.
Years ahead, when I eat this,
memories will conjure up:
My mother by the stove,
diced peppers, onions, and meat on the wooden board,
a cupboard scented with thyme,
the sounds of rice boiling,
All suddenly deafened by my sobbing