my Mother loved Her kitchen food suffocated the cabinets and cupboards the intoxicating smell of spices, seasonings, herbs latched onto Her skin and hair when She tells me pretend you are a meal I’m preparing— i play along once, i forgot to remove my nail polish missing my solemn request to God so She said my fingers were nuts or pistachio needing to be forced open with a nutcracker— the metal jaw of the machine kissed my fingers mixing my blood in the garlic smell of Her hands that was the first time i understood what it meant to blend— with the person you love whenever i got too loud or my personality stretched, covering Her shadow, i used the colander to strain my thoughts and the mandoline slicer to shave off the parts of me She didn’t like— praying that the remains were palatable once a month, i would sit in boiling water with the vegetables and the raw meat cleansing myself of burnt scars: the smokey scents of sins She can’t forgive— and i can’t repent from but the smell of metallic garlic never washed away