alphabetizing the spices 

i took all of the spices out 
of the wrack, lined them up on
all the counters by the stove.

the house was empty & i asked
each noise in the walls
if it was a ghost & if it 
wanted to keep my company tonight.

the spices with their different
colored heads; red, green, black.
with their different heights;
the shortest like children,
i stacked them on 
each other's shoulders &

that's when they started speaking
all at once, all vying for
my attention. their voices
were muffled, coming 
from the inside of each container.

i opened first the anise
& told it to hush. it told 
me one of the stories my mother
used to tell about baking
cookies with her mother, it
spoke fast & staccato
& i put the lid back on,
giving it a place on 
the spice wrack.

the next i opened cardamom 
& cumin, both who were 
just humming different hymns;
Ave Maria & Kum ba ya.
i humored them, of course,
singing along aimlessly.

they grew impatient,
louder now, all of them. 
i told them i would talk to 
all of them, that i would
try & listen.

they threw their head
on the floor in protest,
the plastic plunking 
against tile.

that was when i realized
that i also have a head
& i could throw mine off
as well.

the three jars of turmeric
(which i can't even think
of a recipe to use that in)
spoke only in words
that people have yelled
at me from car windows.

i wondered how something
so orange could know 
what the word dyke means
& i told them to stop,
that i wouldn't keep
them if they talked to 
like that. 

pouring the spice
out in the sink they
only got louder & now 
it was in the bones of
the house.

i tipped myself too,
i had to know what spice
would come out & i dropped
apart as cinnamon sticks,
each a bone leaving my body,
i bled paprika & pulled
bay leaves from under
my tongue & when i did

the spices stopped talking.
i put in headphones &
finished alphabetizing them,
ending with tarragon.