Potatoes are burning in the fryer

The third time I’m washing my hands with dish soap,
He is on the other side of the phone,
It’s Thursday, November, dry, and cold,
And my hands smell like garlic and onion,
And love looks like tomatoes and oregano
Sitting on the counter.
Yes, everything circles back to love.
To love through vegetables
My hands must get dirty, smelly, oily,
To dissolve the sound of an aeroplane 
We must love loudly
Through ink and paper
Recite a love poem with anxiety in our stomach
We must write poetry inconveniently.
In order to love mystically
We must light the candles
Try not to burn the house, your hands, or your heart
Keep it safe, let it breathe, let the air in.
In order to love mindfully,
We must leave the city,
Must escape the piercing eyes of the new political party.
To love is to hold the knife
To love is to do the math
To love is to carry a box full of fruits
To love is to buy flowers,
Either way you carry the burden of it, of love.
Anyway, my potatoes are burning and he is almost here.

Kazi Meheru Tasfia is a poet who tries to rebel through her words. Find her work @poems.words.thoughts on Instagram.