You call to me in malls, those Cinnabon kiosks that exhale the sienna spice essence of you baked and glazed with azúcar. I shake you on my Starbucks latte, watch you fall on the foam like ginger snow.
Who knew you came from Ceylon, or that you were used in the embalm- ing of Egyptian mummies, or that in the Old Testament, you were in an anointing oil, or that Nero burned your sticks on the pyre of his second wife, the one he murdered?
O, Cinnamon, you sound like sin, like mammon, but in my mother’s yellow kitchen, beneath the pendulum tail and sliding eyes of the Felix the Cat clock, I called you “minocin” as I sprinkled you on buttered toast and leaned in, sniffing you right up my sneezy nose, my elbows on the robin’s-egg-blue table where they never were supposed to be. O, Cinnamon.