Once I read in a poem a recipe
for curing yourself of your pain
or your ghosts. The way it was
written, they seemed synonymous,
or interchangeable. I don't have
dirt or rum or herbs, so I must
improvise. Lifting the lid of
the rice pot, I hold my face
above the rush of steam.
When my eyes clear, at least
momentarily I can tell again
the difference between the water
grief makes, and water that lies
dispersed on formica and tile.