Revisiting Hekale

On the light switch,

her floury fingerprints,

the black receiver held

in a fist of bread.

Then words of wheat

across years of salt.
 

Morning of jasmine, earth-clot, bed of bone.
 

“Fate and faith will strum your cords,

your spinal rope fraying.”
 

She will also tell you why

the dream you’re hooked to

is flopping in the depths.
 

Afternoon of  goodness, water of thought, magician of lack.
 

“A hundred voices will be lumped and balled

a music of tearing sounding from your throat.”
 

She will also tell you

how the soul will worm

its way to nourishment,

how a heart grows and

grows less like a heart.