It is my wish to learn 
the proper words to accompany
       the fermentation of grain,
the binding of affluence
       to the foot of each house
post. How sweet the yeast
       that rises at 4 AM, 
that thickens above the wrist
       which plies it into ribbons.
Will I see you then lose you again
       in this lifetime, mother?
In all your pictures, the mole 
       underneath your lip still glows 
like a small, half-buried planet; 
       one tiny hair whitens
on its surface like a flag. 
       Some tasks do not require
a knife or any other implements made 
       of teeth or metal. My fingers 
tug open the winged bean, touch 
       each numbered curl on fern.
All of them tell me what I 
       already know: the cleanest bone
is the one lifted from its body. 


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