PEACOCK

my grandmother is in a cramped kitchen in the morning,
cluttered countertop, sunlit skin, wide smile.
she measures flour by the handful, steady, certain,
each finger attuned to the future, the only unit she knows
being feeling and the desired measurement being right.

i wonder how many meals one could read in her palms.
i ask her how she can be so sure of herself
and she simply smiles. five years after her death,
my grandmother has left the cramped kitchen to become
an aching bleeding screaming hole in my chest.

i summarize her in key words so google
can help me bring her back to life, all of her, with the countertop and the sunlight and the smile
and the index on the pulse of the world.

google: algerian recipes.
google: algerian dessert recipes.
google: food that puts your heart back together.
google: ramadan desserts.
google: ingredients to redeem your soul.
google: how to say sorry to the dead.
google: sfenj recipe.

i look for blogs from 2007. women on blogs from 2007 always know
what they’re talking about. one of them speaks of her niece and ramadan and early mornings
and says something about 300 grams of flour.

i remember the handfuls.
i divide 300 grams by an approximate number to imagine how much
my grandmother’s hand could hold.
i imagine my hand replacing the flour.
i can no longer imagine the unit feeling and the measurement right, which is to say,
i imagine an imperfect fit.

my hand is not flour.
the sfenj never taste quite right.
necromancy is not an exact science.