acidic and yeasty,
proofs in a pool of first light,
a blush of warmth that grows and shifts
inside a yellow bowl.

I brush leavings: flour, sugar, salt,
a memory closing in. I turn
at the sound of my name, a whisper
shambling up my spine.

I’ve been lonely before,
survived some bad stretches,
but she, pale-faced, red dirt dusted,
lips too shy to hold on to language,

is so gone, as if love never counted—
a white spot where a painting used to shine.
I bake, broom,
bounce the grandchildren,

every breath ragged with bones.
That’s what time does,
turns mourning into
metaphor.