vegetable broth 

grease gathering for mason jar worship.
white. slick. blubber of a moon whale.
i watch my mother bathe the left over garden.
everyone else smashing ants with their fingers 
& saying, "this has to stop." the wooden spoon
stirring carrot limbs. heat can remove
any kind of essense. pry away part of your ghost.
sometimes, in july's mirage,
i'll go outside & fill cup after cup
with my longing. the word "ache" 
is a paperweight. when the AC dies, we give it
a good shake. hold our breath as it 
sputters alive again. the pot's rounded bottom.
burner hot & red as a planet. 
when i look at celery i always see playground slides.
a hand flat against my back.
the loosening carrot fists. fingers uncurl.
i tell my mother she is a good mother 
but i say it in my head. in the kitchen
dust collections on shelves. old cook books
turn to moths that die trying to talk to 
the sun. the vegetable stock bubble & talks
about aquifers & wells. dreams of floating
& steam & cloud. so so close to air.
salt scattered into the water. each grain
dissapeared. gone to sleep. sound of spoon
against metal. smell of the word "always."
she takes a taste before putting the lid on
to let it cool. ants carry sugar
the size of their hearts toward 
all the house's seams. light above the oven.
carrot's untied shoelaces.
last to bed, i can see the cooling take place.
how, once livid, the stock becomes 
a home with a door & a living room. 

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