to sit at my kitchen table
where God eats oatmeal with me
every morning, we remark on the way
cinnamon and almonds make all the difference
and the sweet
of blueberries that fall into my hands when i open the fridge
we talk
as if the skin of the earth isn’t on fire, as if
there is nothing hunting me
all my choices running freely across the floor
white-tailed lambs without names
i do not have to hold them up to a man first
they are simply
given into my hands, even though i am made of breasts
and a womb
i am not sure i dare ask for more.

— Kabul

© Liezel Graham 2021

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