by Mary Specker Stone
today, two serrano chilis, thirty or so little tomatillos
from the garden, and some grass-fed beef that’s too tough
for any other purpose than slow-cooking in a chili. Slicing
the serranos lengthwise with my largest chef’s knife,
I scrape out the tiny seeds and pulp with my index fingernail,
chop them small, not to a mince, but who knows where the line is?
Boiling water loosens the tomatillos’ papery wrappers to allow
me to peel them, cut them in half. My fingers, not yet burning
as I chop an onion, press a few small garlic cloves, cut open
the package of ground beef, add all these ingredients
to the sauté pan. Roe v Wade has been overturned. Liberty,
as in, history of. Herstory, the proper term, the one we used at
the feminist clinic. Yes, I’m thinking about the right to abortion
as I cook this meal, and my fingers begin to burn. More burning
as I wash the dishes. The more water, the more burn. That’s how
capsaicin infuses the flesh. I might have worn gloves to handle
the serranos, but I didn’t protect my fingers with latex, I wanted
to feel the chilis’ crisp greenness, so I used my bare hands,
and now, an hour later, I can barely grip the pen for the burning.
Mary Specker Stone’s work has been published in The Gyroscope Review, The Healing Art of Writing, vol. 1, Paradise Review, and Gila River Review. Mary lives in Scottsdale, Arizona, where she works as a spiritual director and facilitates a monthly poetry salon.
