On a bathroom floor that is not my own, a silent wail-- face red, split open like the drought of the earth drinking rain, veins of my neck and arms awakened pythons, water breaths through parted lips, open palms to sky I send: “All of me is aching," and, "How do I manage this with honor?” A conversation felt. Another wave, another shore. I wash my face with cold water. I rub ylang ylang into the soft patch of skin behind my ears. My chest is lighter than when I walked in. I do it all again a few hours later. ~ Standing over oil hot, gathering, stirring—- keep it warm in the oven, time it just right. On my toes to reach a plate for you, a plate for me. A dance of companionship, the broth just the way it was when you said it was the best soup you think you've ever had. I made a mental note then, of what I did in that pot, to be sure I did it just like that again. ~ I run the water hot and bless the salt I scatter into the tub. I take a book of poems from the shelf that salves, a crystal for the place that asks, a candle for what needs to burn. I glide into the water like it has been wanting to hold me all season. My ears submerged, I listen to my heart’s drum, my breath, the droplets of water from the drain, my stomach’s movements. I sing and read and stare at the glow of flame on the tiles. I remember I am more spirit than body.