I was told that a master of loving
enjoyed cooking for his disciples.
He cut the onions with great devotion,
making sure that no tiny piece of
throat-scratching onion skin
would inhabit his chickpea curry.
For years I cooked
for my hard-working husband,
the one I trusted above all others.
I sang as I chopped the veggies
and poured all my being
into the simple feast.
I told my man,
“Love is the main ingredient”
but he didn’t seem to follow.
He wondered how making a curry
took a whole day
while dust settled
on the furniture.
He ate quickly, silently,
and I had to ask
if he had enjoyed the meal.
Where had my prayers gone–
to flatulence, I guess?
This is just part of a larger story
so I hope you won’t draw
too many conclusions
from these words.
Conclusions, like chickpeas,
need more time.
And now, I must go,
fling some meat
in a pan.
Supper will be quick tonight
because my evening job
needs all my energy.
The world has entered
into my cloister–
for now.
And yet I know
that I am a master of loving.
Sometimes love is expressed
by capturing coins,
which is good and useful
in itself;
Yet my most gentle reverent love
Glistens in the sauce
of the All-Day Curry.
a poem by Julie
with special love and devotion to Hubby on Valentine’s Day