i am plucking seed & skin

from my teeth while she

stirs, boiling strands

of melon flesh

you see, i don’t believe

my pohpoh knows

when to ladle the simmering fat

because the pot overflows

and still she

hums a

song about how

she was

inside the belly of a mare

in a past life,

as if she was the nourishment

waiting to be served

cartilage of grass.

my pohpoh flicks salt

into the soup

like a priestess

ministering to herself,

sprinkling holy water onto gristle.

drink, she tells me,

flames lapping at

at her hands,

drink.