I grasp the hard and smooth glass with ease,
something i have done many times before.
The axis of my wrist rotates
like an upside-down pendulum,
as if the hands on a clock are spinning backward
then thrust forward again and again.
I use the auspicious and respectful hand-
the companion to my four fingers holds
the cylinder.
I can see its cargo, crystallized
like tiny icicles which have been shattered
into the millions of fragments it truly holds.
Pieces that will make up my very being,
my nourishment.
The flavor of all Earth’s beings
cooked.
The metallic silver top
boasts passages just large enough
to allow the spices to cascade.
A slow and methodical spill,
intended-as if someone had
overturned an hourglass.