The woman in the window
rinses her cup. Her husband’s
left for work. He binds books
in a room where dead flies collect
in the corners. Her son’s
boarded the bus for school.
She, knowing few of the intricacies
of workday life, considers
a second cup of coffee and stops.
She remembers what she dreamed:
her father dragging a rake
through grass and roots
in an Anatolian village.
As the lump in her breast
grows larger, she puts on a red skirt
and waits by the mirror
for light to fill the room again—
the sun of villages, and smooth,
rich, almost virgin soil.