The Myth of Singular Origin

Falling as prelude to sleep, as memory of skinned 

elbows and knees; or farther back, as memory 

of permanent exile from whatever first eden 

we were taught to call home, until we messed 

with the topiary and orchards. Falling as failure, until

we remember: original is really that from which anything

is first derived. Lift each bottle out of the spice drawer 

and turn it around in the light: every exhale of Aleppo 

pepper, wild Malabar cinnamon; aromatic clove from 

the Moluccas, Kampot peppercorns to crush with lime 

leaf. Turmeric, curry, cardamom—meaning all these suns 

first harvested from our gardens. The question isn't

why we were banished, but why it shouldn't then be 

natural for us to want our true homes returned.

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