Too late, washing my hands with
mulberry and rosehip having stained
your book of poems about death
in olive oil fingerprints.
The smell of garlic too,
spices rubbed into chicken before
I paused to read - domesticated,
dying in between words
and the loss written there:
I too feel loss, this cooking and reading
two of the many simple things
I naturally try to survive it all,
and now these imprints
are something else to share.