She has the prim hips of one
who makes her own bread daily;
her sockets are fresh petals
around a brined curl of pearl.
"A father's curse is a heavy burden:
it weighs on the womb like idols."
She keeps a goatwool scarf tied
taut across the brow as I pour
whisky as blended as incests -
she refuses with a smile to tempt
an offer of long labour, gratis.
"I lost sight of him on the Efrat road;
a good man, worthy of sororital love."
Her white glance speaks of graves
and dust, birth-killed bones lost
between steads; her sumac breath
shows a devotion for hearths.
"He took my miracles, my desert fruits -
Atonement comes, and I must hug them."