I sat in front of box where baba saved books and diaries. I found a postcard in one of the brown envelopes. In a basket of woven pines, where a chicken once sat over her eggs I sang, because my lips stiffened with loneliness. I crossed the same garden many nights until my face was greased like a potter’s supple fingers rolling mud into a pot. My lover taught me to read a map from her palms, now I know where to seek light when it’s cold.