Imprints

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.