In the open door of my refrigerator,
his hot sauces salute me
with labels that offer precautions,
names of havoc and catastrophe:
Spontaneous Combustion
and Ass Kickin' Fire (complete
with a donkey popping its hind legs.)
On the one I love,
Amazon Heat, a rainbow pours
from the mouth of a parrot.
His favorite is Number 37 Hot Sauce.
They spice up my cooking, he says.
And, yes,
he's tried the other 36 kinds.

Before this time of hot sauces
there was a time of jars:
stuffed olives and spikes
of Kosher dill pickles
for my father's monthly visits.
Before this time of hot sauces
there was a certain wet film
on the open door.

Today I bought a jar of marmalade
and muscled it into the jungle
of bottles, camouflaged
in its like colors. Seville oranges
sit in a bowl on its lid, bright
balls of fruit that offer no heat
but only the coolness of cold citrus.
The hot sauces consult in groups,
huddling in heated tropical congress,
green with envy.