It is gray everywhere: coal soot
on the eaves, rain changes to sleet
changes to dirty white snow. We
have nothing to eat but potatoes,
turnips, and bread. I crave
green: braised kale, spinach,
even shredded cabbage.
The sky is pregnant too,
full of round clouds.
I barter the ring for a cabbage,
make soup, but it doesn’t satisfy.
One night, when they are all asleep,
I touch the tip of my tongue to a sliver of coal,
but it is gritty, dusty, and black.
The next day, the children napping,
I take a tablespoon into the garden,
dig under the icy layer of snow to the gray
clay dirt
beside the fence. I put the spoon to my
mouth.
It tastes of aluminum, feces, and clay pots.
I put my spoon in again, lift it to my lips,
then hear my neighbor splashing her
wash water
out the door. I stand, smooth my apron,
slipping the spoon inside the pocket,
wanting the sky to darken, the moon
to open up and swallow me, feed me
rocks and gold, minerals and diamonds,
all the hardness in the world
to make this soft baby grow.
