Ode to chickpea stew

Ode to chickpea stew

let’s start with
the once finely robed onion
peeled, exposed then diced,
readied to be browned,

like to
skin as lovely
as grandmothers cheek

pungent garlic joined
in the heated olive oil
The black stock pot,
tries to hold the family
like the clutched fists
of my mothers hands

but the choking
fumes taste the air with
the reminder of
hot mississippi bread

like the smell of sun grass
deer fast-
stead in their
watch, of clandestine love making
almost as diligent
as chickpeas,
joined with black beans
in stock

grandfather june
who joined
in the heated debate
over the peperika
and bay leaf
tried to ignore the
face of our snatched ancestors
also looking to be fed
and was swallowed instead

Ode to the chickpea
disguised as common
friend, but is a bean
sneakier than a fox in july
poured with broth heavy
and salted to simmer
for taste

pure pistachios
enters in the linage of
this lone poet who is barely able
to keep from
bubbling over the
page, barely able to
keep from setting the page
on light
with the same fire,

always welcomed used for
the stew, that fed
and nurtured,
left on
the stove for washed
hands of any and all