1
do not tell anyone
that my softest self
really feels like wet
burlap against
cold asphalt.
and breakdowns are
commonplace like
how fat separates
from the broth and
hardens in the pot.
2
she speaks ill of her own bones
hunched over in the kitchen
and her spine, everyday
inches closer towards her mother
dead in a box smelling of Aleppo
spices, still clutching her purse
ready to hand out gum and wisdom -spitting
out one and chewing on the other.
3
i grabbed the handle and pushed in the spade
with my foot -understanding then, how hard
it is letting go one shovel of earth at a time.
and for a few moments, we all cried
in unison, the midday sun
making ugly mourners of us all.
