From the Fishouse

No food full enough to tacit tastings,
rice in the palms of her siblings-seven.

Unseen her steps and lattices, equally
unseen her feats or fealty, her catching.

Never known that grain grown straight,
though plum honey on my hands each finger

sticky sweet in its fissures and webbing.
Her fingers splayed, her roots in gloves,

each indictment a witch’s discretion,
each night grown through the gloves,

the bulb pregnant but not yet beloved.
I desired a lemon, had nothing with which to cut.

Just oil shining at the lips and the fine flat face
of the pan, cast iron eased with seasoning.

Cayenne pepper in my palm and sprung
and black pepper squared and salt.

Sugar cracked by cold milk poured to the pot,
cream split and fissured in blond sugar-milk,

coming undone in the chicory coffee.
Her blue plates and her fork missing a tine,

the cast iron in her hand, her arm by her side,
the door open to the yard, the clothesline,

her sheets drying on that line, the oranges
on the tree, the fruit full on the sill. Move,

my rooms and walls and excellent lamp,
my dry rice my tin room my rain.