He never has any. Each time I ask.
Sometimes I go in for nothing other
than fresh coriander. You’d think
he’d have got the message and
would stock some, knowing I’ll be in
to ask for fresh coriander. But no, never.
And I’m persistent, keep asking.
Do you have any fresh coriander?
Sometimes he offers me dried,
but that’s no substitute. Or thinks
I’ll make do with fresh parsley. Hardly!
I want fresh coriander because
that’s what is needed. What it asks for.
Not the recipe – I don’t like to be told
what to do. Life, I mean, life asks for it.
And now, the now asks for it.
He doesn’t even enquire what I want it for
or attempt an apology. Just expects me
to do without. Well, I won’t. I don’t.
I buy a large pot and grow coriander that is
so fresh it’s a head rush. Coriander thrives
in my apartment. So much fresh coriander
I can’t see the windows for the herbs.
And so I take some along to him,
thinking it would be a nice thing to do,
neighbourly. And guess what?
He says Thanks, but no thanks. No reason
like lack of space. Doesn’t claim an allergy.
Doesn’t say he won’t accept my charity.
I say it’s home grown, organic,
without pesticides. But it’s he who decides,
he who has herb boundaries.
And I walk away with all my goddamn
fresh coriander and it’s a fresh reminder.
That he never has any.
And doesn’t want any of mine.