Chickpea can, slayed

our means are limited in this primitive kitchen.
we forgot our oil, but bartered for some with an African woman in exchange for some of our cayenne pepper from the indian market on st. laurent.
she gave us grease from the bottom of her drumstick pan. beauty, the fat, beauty.
our can opener breaks and we take our knives to the cans - widening the can-opener wound on the chickpea can, and firm swift pokes to the top hide of the coconut milk.
the venom of the hot peppers has stung my fingertips, ears, and tongues.
i wipe my brow of sweat, the bubbling curry cauldron below us is a successful incarnation of volcanic energy.
i look at the chicpea can in our thin black plastic burial pit.
i feel proud for how i stuck our knife deep into its mouth, wiggled it around, and hung it upside down above our tube of no return.
its fluids came easily, but to reap the full-bodied chickpeas i had to pry its mouth open wider, using my brute force and ingenuity.
the broken dollar-store can opener was the perfect tool to push the can's jaw open further.