O clove,
excitement blares
from your
cradled orb
I crush for stew
or sizzle whole
in oil before
sliding in
the fish.
You blaze yellow
as margarine dye,
as a sun hat
on Guam.
Your aroma
is exotic as
flamingoes
landing by thousands
on Lake Victoria.
Your pungency
oozes
from my cloth as
I polish
the dining room table.
You leave marks
like tiny snake bites
when I push
you point first
into an orange.
You transport me to
the high desert
of Southern
Oregon, to the pier
where I dined
with friends at
Fort Cochin.