Spice Trade

by Devi Sastry

Spice Trade

Teabags erase the earth, the warmth

their ginger labels promise;

trapped cinnamon is sharper than my tongue

can take, and the memory of elaichi

appeals to me, pungent shock-pods

boiled to subtlety.

That’s the bargain of the spice-tamer:

every flavour is traded for tolerance, lost

across borders, or to the salt of the sea.

Away from home, the only clove I taste

comes from toothpaste

and the word ‘spice’ means

simply, strength.

I cannot blame ancestry —

my cousins too are prone

to crafting weak blends, paler

than the chai tailored to my tastebuds

brewed to milky amber,

strained into ring-stained china.

Always, the first sip burns —

I never learn —

but numbness is a small price to pay

for liquid gold, warm bones

on a rainy day.