There was no other salad in our home but salata. Greens from the garden spring through fall and the anemic head lettuce for winter. Oil. Vinegar. Salt. The recipe straightforward like all the women in the family. When I tear the leaves my hands are many hands: the thick, worn fingers of Baka the club-nailed
brittle snow countless needles dropping today I knit up sad and black into a sweater would not stay folded in the drawer how can a body stitched with bone fit in this? stretched, bed’s length all night weedy symbols root in the mind in the dirt outside under snow broken nails, pins are growing into
Edna’s Mouth Edna and her mouth. They are never separate. Electric pink gums that are slowly receding from the ocher-rimmed peg teeth. “People with mouths like that go nowhere in life,” your mother said as she was spending a wad on the orthodontics that would take over your face for two years. It’s true. Who
