meditations while cooking for the dead
I have an onionskin splinter, and
ginger under my tongue
I stare at the homunculus carved
into the bottom of my foot
and think: roots
roots are what hold us
mint crushed between my fingers
rosemary and sweet potato fingerlings roasting
in the belly of my desire
hot as lightning
in the undertow of the earth
I am the red-tailed hawk
and I am the windchime.
I am the browning leaves on the oak
that tells you, oh, my branch is dead.
You look for signs in clouds,
But I will tell you with a toss of silver
whither winds, when rains.
My body is your tidal map
my hand, your pointing tree,
I am the signal stars to the north
that walk you, oh, black river bound.
I trade in bells, in knots
on sounding lines.
My navel will pull you with a tide of moonshine.
Fathoms deep: true signs.
Nora Pace writes poetry, essays, and fiction. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in Emerge Literary Journal, The Maynard, Peculiar Journal, Juniper, Cobra Milk, and Barren Magazine. She lives in Central Falls, Rhode Island, and teaches high school English.