I sat in front of box where baba saved books and diaries.
I found a postcard in one of the brown envelopes. 

         In a basket of woven pines, where
         a chicken once sat over her eggs

                  I sang, because 
                  my lips stiffened with loneliness. 

                           I crossed the same garden many nights
                           until my face was greased 

                                             like a potter’s supple fingers
                                             rolling mud into a pot.

                                                      My lover taught me to read a map from her palms,
                                                      now I know where to seek light when it’s cold.