The womb is filled with echoes from drops of
warm pregnant tears, warm as the blood boiling
within the ribs slow braising until soft—
can humans ever be made from cooked things?—
with enough heat, flesh melts. The small wet space
beneath lit stove is dark as December,
nothing lies there but a white flag raised;
the sour smell of rain draws the broken near
and cold wind scatters unused seeds afar.
So, after hope simmers, loss evaporates,
there’s nothing left except a reservoir
of testimonies noone wishes said.
She spends her hours there long, sipping tea,
preparing dinner to set her soul free.