ginger

small granules 

of grated ginger 

are embedded 

in my fingernails 

the knife is slick  

& the root crunches 

with my movement 

I am distracted 

your pacing 

outmaneuvers 

your own anxiety 

but I’m trying 

to stay focused

on the tangible 

the taste of ginger 

and foolish blood 

a small pool 

forming

on the tip 

of my finger 

the samba blaring 

two doors down 

reminding me 

I am missing the cool 

depth of the Caribbean 

I decide to sear garlic 

and lime 

it stings 

but I continue. 

– Sheila C