“I would watch her in the kitchen, watch her

form the biscuits like children to rise

in dark heat. I saw her kill

chickens with one twist.

I saw her burn the feathers off

of every sort of bird.

Then one night, after she washed

the platter large as the moon

sitting on the windowsill,

after she put away clean knives sharp

and hard as father’s toenails,

I saw her touch her breast, big,

not like mine, and press it hard

till tears came, then she pressed

harder till half of her was flat

as me, and together we cried.”