by Zola Gonzalez-Macarambon

This age
has taken her
closest to the stove,
farthest from the bottle.
At dawn on her 33rd year,
near fire,
more flammable than ever -
brittle bone,
dry skin,
greasy hair -
she stokes the coals orange
with morning breath,
makes the light makes
the world makes supper
by the day, everyday
in dark kitchen counters.

The years rush infinite
like tide heavy
with the guts of earth,
bone of sea, steam of hell fires
when measured in cups.

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