Stars of Anise

My mother used a stone to crush stars
of anise just before she steeped them
in milk or tea.  Sometimes
she used her hands: two stars
to change the taste of water
or rice, three to quiet a simmering soul,
one to raise the lid of an eye a little wider
weighted by the host of summer colds.

It wasn’t enough for her to breathe
the seductive perfume of cinnamon
mint and ginger spice.
She’d roll the rough crust
of its brown bark between her fingers.
She measured its raw pepper
on her tongue before she infused
its essence into warm insipid foods.

In each star, she knew a tiny circle. 
A universe, the umbilical source
from which petals must grow—imperfect
but distinct; in its husk, shiny copper seeds;
in each seed, untouched nutmeat, stone
being, soft as a new beginning.