Garlic is for Heroes

Not the unspoilt fragrance on a newborn head

or the feral breath of a puppy,

not the crisped caraway of rye bread

or the pine of a forest study,

not the tangy tickle of an Amalfi lemon

or the buttercup richness on cream from Devon,

not the behind-the-ears-talcum of a kitten

or the sweet’n sour piquancy

on whom you’re smitten;

the grounding warmth of frying garlic and chilies

makes me weak-kneed,

is my Achilles.

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