but when you are not visiting they amuse
one another even more
you wouldn’t believe it stranger
the things of which these women are capable

Balled below my tongue
like a seed
I won’t plant, afraid to surrender
the dream

I doubt these empty pockets
could produce a grave
or plot of land
or shovel—my fingers
cannot penetrate this
scorched, mountainous earth:
and always,
there is hunger.

Let me stretch my mouth wide /
as a summer afternoon /
and say it loud, say it sticky /
say the days and their yellow hands / and the air so open / you could walk inside it

I haven’t seen my mother’s face
in a while/ too much empty in the house
/and everything is so heavy these days
/ including her head and her hands