They fed me
soups with sediment of bile,
chopped entrails of animals
who bleated under the guava trees
before the torch singed hide
and the glistening knife slit
the pulsing throat.
At night they cradled
me in salt netting The webs
still wet from all the thread
we gathered and wove from our eyes
They did not have to say
watch and learn I smelled
the lessons of their bodies
Soap and water
in their hair Calluses on each finger
Oiled and bent over the stove
they did not fear blood or dirt
Crying out from behind closed
bedroom doors
How could they still be sweetest
in sorrow Shielding the lamp
wick that fluttered in the depths
Whatever happens they said
Burn Don't let it go out
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.