Khayelihle Benghu | Thorns and Petals

The Debated Chowder

My friend Zakes is a chef of ceremony.
She tends the fire like a prophet,
smoking the chicken he raised
with hands that remember hunger
and hearts that forgive slowly.

She calls it game
not for sport but for survival.
The golden bowl holds more than flavor;
it cradles the ache of days
we couldn’t name aloud.

We tenderize the meat
with tears we didn’t plan to shed,
marinate it in silence
spiced with memory.
Let it simmer all night
while we fast and pray,
so it might taste like mercy
by morning.

We add onions
to clear the eyes
without shame,
garlic to unburden
what the heart can no longer carry.

The potatoes
they know how to listen.
They absorb the pain
without protest.

We stir slowly,
as if sorrow could be dissolved
with enough patience.
Faith is the spoon
it thickens the broth,
makes it rich
with what we still believe.

Even the Carolina Reaper
tastes like tomato
when you’ve cried enough.

We serve it warm
by the open fire,
listening
as the climate’s roar deepens,
and the earth reminds us
how to hold each other
before the next storm comes.

===

Thorns and Petals

I wore His crown once
not in Jerusalem,
but in the quiet ache
of a ward at midnight.

Thorns pressed into my thoughts,
each one a question,
Why this pain? Why this sorrow?
I bled without wounds.

Yet even there,
a lily bloomed beside the bed
white as surrender,
pure as the love of God.

I remembered Gethsemane,
how He knelt among olives and sorrow,
how the garden did not shield Him,
but bore witness.

So I gathered petals,
from grief, from prayer,
from the hands of patients
who whispered “thank you”
like psalms.

Now I wear His crown
not as punishment,
but as proof
that thorns can birth flowers
if love is the root

===

Poetry © Khayelihle Benghu
Image: Pixaline Pixabay ChatGPT remix