the short breaths
small poems, read in a single breath
you would expect stone.
you get warm bread.
my mother's hands have carried firewood, fevers, three jobs, five boys and one ocean…
the islanders say nuchi gusui.
food is medicine.
the outside said keep walking. the two stone lions by the door said otherwise, grinning like they knew something…
all week i instruct machines and the machines obey…
an island with no engines, only donkeys keeping the old pace, and narrow roads that fold and fold…
the dough must rest. the kiln must cool. the experiment runs overnight…
every load i have ever carried has weighed less at the shoreline…
a cup of this, a teaspoon of that, and whatever the heart has been carrying, fold it in. it bakes out sweet…
the first sip of water in the night. the parking spot by the door…
three times in my life. i have counted. people call me calm. i let them…
