Photo by Akil Mazumder on
there is no village here.

       no blood pact of grands, 
       no secret soup on the stove 
       for a tired mother. 

i’ve grown feral.

i sustain 
life with 

my babies are homegrown,
i am the first of my kind
tilling the soil for new life.

the soup on the 
stove is my own,
the carrots and
potatoes i tore
from their roots
did not argue.

find me in the kitchen,
a baby on one hip,
dirt under my fingernails,
taking long sips 
from a cracked bowl.

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