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
whiplash
instinct.
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.