It was the crack of the jalapeño peppers that made her cry.
She could feel their juices seep out onto the cutting board
and her tears had nothing to do with the words he’d said
or the way he’d walked away without looking back,
while she stood there, stone-faced, watching.
She diced the peppers, threw them into a pot,
pushed the cutting board into her sink on top
the blue dish, the yellow bowl, the empty vase
spattered on the bottom with curled dead rose petals.
The cat jumped to the counter, curled around her arm
as it stretched toward the faucet so that she could wash
the sting from her pinkened fingers, her raw palms.
She could feel the peppers simmer, hear their sizzle
over the licking flame, against the metal bottom.
The blur pushed past her eyes, down her cheeks
until it tickled the ridge of her jaw line and
wet her neck a little, the place he once had kissed
and tucked his nose, the rough tickle of his goatee
against her while they slept, but she wasn’t thinking
of that or missing him at all as she wiped her face.
It was the opening of those small heated hearts
with their oblong beats and spine of stem that
made her feel flushed as if angered and
made her spill open as if she‘d overflowed.