broth i took bones of the dirt & water-plunged them in the rusted bottom pot. hunger is a mouth discovered & burried. inside, my own bones dwindled. novembering forest. i learned to live on glances of fruit. red apple. tongue of my eyes. steam from boil. carrot legs & celery jaws & onion knuckles. we made broth on sundays when fate had less fingers. i thought of boiling myself. how sweet & melancholy. wooden spoon dreaming itself back into a tree. this is a fantasy of return. to air. to water. drinking a spoonful. warmth ascending until i am roots again.