The stove eats wood.
The flatbreads smell of sugar.
Pots of stew
foretell the future.
Grandma dries clothes inside,
and sheets of yufka,
trays, and the heads of freshly bathed children.
Outside, the wind keeps knocking its forehead
against our house.

A a butterfly, a toad, and a soul sleep in the earth.

Uncle tells his slow stories,
gathered from people’s homes and woods.
Whatever happens, it’s all good,
and all people are good.

The women keep knitting long memories
and vivid dreams of the dead.
Jars of honey lined up by the fire,
a scratch at the back of my throat.

My mother left me
sweets, and words, and dresses…
I’m a big girl now
but these women still watch over me
as if I were a kitten.
They sprinkle sugar on the woodstove
when I have a stuffy nose,
and I breathe in the black smoke as a cure.

They whisper their dark little charms.

I listen to grandma, to the wind and the stove.
I don’t want these words to run out.
This nose of mine whistling along with the kettle,
and this scratch at the back of my throat.