08/09/2026
They say mother
like it is a warm room
expected to hold
whatever is poured into it
and forgive the hand
that leaves it burning.
The pot keeps its mouth shut
and still the whole house smells of it:
Onion skin.
Milk scorch.
The iron ache
of something left too long.
I want to laugh,
lay my face
against the kitchen tile
and let the grout take my name.
Fat gold beads rise
to the surface,
carrots soften into sweetness,
bone gives up its marrow
because what else can bone do?
I have made a broth of myself
for them:
salt from my neck,
parsley from the green dream
I used to keep in a jar
on the windowsill.
I kiss their heads
and mean it.
I tuck the blanket
under each small chin.
I feel the lid in me lift
just a little
steam hissing out
with its ugly wet breath.
I did not know
love could require
so much scraping:
from the bottom
from the rim
from the burnt black halo.
I stand over what remains:
the spoon gone still,
my face blurred in the grease,
and I cannot tell
whether I am feeding them
or disappearing
mouthful
by mouthful.
-Mira Hadlow
