- from Ancient Greek ἄλευρον, áleuron, “flour” On the countertop, pulverized residue of fields. When I run my fingers across it, I remember the first time a clump of green on the roadside betrayed my trust by cutting a young, clean stroke across my palm. Hold it out, said the woman who stippled the barely visible wound with alcohol on a cotton ball. Hold it out, said a neighborhood fortune-teller years later; she traced the number of lines at the edge of my pinky finger then touched the life-line disappearing into my wrist. I sift and sift according to instructions, until the powder's fine clouds settle. I could write names or curses in this sand. With a little heat and sugar and water, I could coax, like ambition, a slab to rise out of almost nothing. I could dimple the cheek of the loaf or razor it before returning it to the fire. I could slip into its folds a ring or a paper heart and hand- penned note for a mouth to find, for the future to devour.