Little green fingers, not chipotle or jalapeno
Just one name “Chilies”, an oxymoron of sorts
They can be found in cucumber and tomato salads
As chopped or sliced green wonders
Or near a basket of pappadam, where darkened red
Crackers can be seen embellishing the culinary full moons
They only accessorize without holding center stage
Littering the corners of banquets and buffets
Bequeathing scorching hot adventures into a universe
Few can survive. A strain of boldness as brave as
The knights of Camelot. And Scoville is show-ville of little explosions
Ticking time bombs of lethally spiced capsaicin….
Capsicum is always a little foray into a bright red world
Where only the courageous-at-heart survive
Bravery is letting your tongue glide through
A circle of fire, and burn marks on receptor ends
Are a taste few south Asians can ever resist. And fire
Tasters just hold a little rod of burning red pepper
Inside their mouth cavity and let fireworks
Dazzle on meadows of sensation. Fire eaters
Are like dragons firing with their mouth’s closed.
They are nuclear explosion into pure gratification.
And indulgence is a little fruit that masquerades
As the maiden Cinderella of true spiciness
And her inbred flavor is as lingering and transparent
As a slipper made of glass.
