God favors dead women—
wives, lovers,
concubines, slaves.
Bodies, bird-light,
a feather or two on the ground.
My grandmothers, aunts,
migrant sisters,
cousins lost to war.
I offer what I can:
figs, tuberoses,
ghazals counted
in stars.
Still, they pluck
quince and dates,
steam rice,
graft geraniums before equinox,
harvest grapes, almonds,
gut trout
with weathered hands.
Freely, they laugh—
a knee no longer
pressed to their chests.
When they wink,
signaling me near,
I lean into their spell,
slip
through the open door.
Artwork courtesy of our featured artist Ernest Williamson III, PhD