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.