I am surprised to find I still crave tastes
that last touched my tongue decades ago:
I remember a night of thunderstorms
when the power went out, and you opened
a jar of fermented rice and fish which we ate
with our hands. I am surprised to realize I know 
the recipe for a thing like this, though I myself 
have never made it. Sometimes all you want 
is the bite of vinegar and the sting of salt
against a sheet of starch; water afterwards 
can taste like clean absolution. Once,
someone taught me how to tell amaranth from
asparagus, lemongrass from millet, mint from
verbena; dandelion sun from head of tufted wishes.

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