Sunloaf

We came to the sink — stained by pomegranate hands, wiped clean by the psalms of soul sisters. Her sweet mandolin, a sunloafin’ blister, red and shining, considering repose. What was left of our moment swayed with the broken string stroking her elbow as she played on. It took everything to let her finish that song — a bowl of seeds from the tree we’d outgrown.

-for Grace