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.

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