Kristina Moriconi

a dense sample—and he smuggles it back

to the States in an empty bottle,

wraps it in a sock, buries it in his suitcase.

There is no other way to know,

though he has suspicions,

sends it off to a lab in his city

to be stained, magnified,

examined between glass slides

beneath a microscope.

The word pathology

derives from the Greek

for the study of pain and suffering.

This desire to help others

is a kind of knowledge—

translational here, it moves

between the work of research

and the practice of medicine.

Clinical nature and site noted:

Left posterior mandible.

Eleven slides: cell nuclei stained

blue, cytoplasmic parts pink.

The body, rendered in contrast,

abstract art. Peripheral cells

cuboid to columnar, tumor islands

exhibiting hyper-cellularity,

depicting mitotic figures

and sequestrum (dead bone).

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.