On the night before surgery, the doctor cooks dinner for her,

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.