Bread in the shape of a dove,

in the shape of knuckle, a fist;

bread hard as a stone with a cross,
porous as a heart with a wing. We sift

dried locust wings to mix with earth
and sugar, their delicate lace

spiraling across the grass. Once,
someone traced the map on my palms

then suddenly grew silent. Once,
I grew smaller when I took back

what I’d opened to the sun, stopped
eating from the family of night-

shades. I dreamt of my mouth
filling with air, my lungs

exploding from all the spores I
saved up year after shadowed year.

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