Tuesday, March 7, 2017

Weep Salt


I am a foreigner in my own country—
my starch gives me
a pleasant consistency,
and I am stirred again and again
over the portable stove.

There are oats in my bones,
my character insists.
Some women weep salt
while they cook;
they could scarcely
hope for dark bread
and now make fibrous porridge.

The liquefied starch
is sweet as water,
and our minds
were hoping they would be
unaffected by its absence.

I am a foreigner in my own country—
without my rough bowl of gruel.

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