In the years after our migration I have forgotten
the names for the trees
the natural direction of rivers
I do the washing in still water

They call it a valley for it is rimmed in timber
we tape dried petals to the inside of books
tuck weeds into our hair

You will not blame me for having tubers
In my womb and room
for little else

The flour absorbs the water
the mash takes the milk
we wait in the still heat of the kitchen
through a series of measured rising
and quick punching down
I make the days' bread

The men come home smelling
of sweat and iron ore
bronze ore
silver is loose enough to remove with a shovel
a gilded hand should be a reward
a compliment
a handprint is a mark
even in precious metal

The backs of your knees are white
the base of the spine
your gums
I take two halves of a man to bed
and both sleep through the night

On Sundays we bathe in the afternoon
and I bring home my bride
to a kitchen warm with bacon fat
we cross the threshold of cooked meat

I always smell like gardenia
crushing the flower in my palms
I pray to the god of mulch
petals rolling in my hand like so much dough
shedding perfume

The scraps I roll into your tobacco
to stir some life into your breath

I do not value the rocks or the lode
I play at small sips of whisky
to return a favor
commanding no weight
I pray to the windless air
the flattened valley