Breaking open these hardened shells
cracking through to stillborn sustenance beneath;
this recipe yields no serving
but memory, which lies;
stirring together tidbits
scraped from an empty larder, crumbs
leftover, the decades
pecking in the sand.
It was a morning like this one, we spoke
of what change could be
the rising and falling of hearts
toughened now, like leather,
brittle as dry wood;
when that sunrise came through the east window,
and spread like the smell of bacon bubbling
if meals could cure this cancer between us,
we would be free with the last bit of bread.
Tonight, this cold rain makes remembering easy,
too easy. Humid mornings with newspapers shared,
we let the sweat bead upon us
while we whispered of the thunderstorm
the night before, the lightning flashing
between us, our bodies.