for the two translators who help him to communicate
in French and Creole. Everything he makes is fresh,
like in her country, from the earth, unspoiled, yielding.
With a long knife, he slices, sweeps aside nine heads
of red snapper, inserts the steel tip of the blade
between skin and flesh, on the dorsal side of the body,
separates soft fillet from the small bones of spine.
Pink and gray guts left splayed on wooden planks,
the stink of entrails as he drags his finger end to end.
On another countertop, he cuts inch-long stems
from black mushrooms, flips their caps into a cast-iron pot
on the stove, water rolling to a boil. The kitchen, larger
than the tent she left behind, smells like her homeland.
Minced shallot and garlic, bay leaves, sprigs of parsley
and thyme, cloves ground with mortar and pestle,
chile pepper, a trace of citrus in the air. White rice
simmers in water darkened by mushrooms, turns black.
Next, his hands push a smaller knife through to the stone
of mango, again and again, pieces tumbling into a clay bowl,
sticky with juice, strings of pulp clinging to the rim,
to the spaces in between his fingers. His salsa recipe
calls for dicing, for several jalapenos finely chopped.
Finally, as he shreds the spooled leaves of coriander,
they all gather around the island, raise their glasses
in a toast to tomorrow, demen, and to no pain, san doulè.