sweetsalt taste in tea leaves, in tears
in bitten fruit, in smooth pitpebbles
sinking stoneheavy to stomachrest
to play marbles in knotted gut
bubble from babbling lips and strike
once, twice, knocking at a waiting door
(the old lady's a witch teethrotted
hunchbacked and clever, spinning wisdom
from arthritic fingers, broken wrists,
pay her, pay her, pay her and leave)
this is the importance of a weight
on your bastard tongue, this is how
hands raised to a sun dawning and
elbows tucked in to raised ribs and
foreheads bowed for family and
back down to the sweat on your brow.
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