The sun trapezed over my knuckles
When I picked up warm wheat
Put out to dry by my grandmother
After it was washed and scrubbed.
It would leave in me
Heat, imprint, smell.
Now our packaged flour
Slips right through
The gaps between my fingers.
Those birthed by the earth
Do not hold each other any more.
We maintain sanitized contact
Mediated by steel and plastic.
First published in Madness Muse Press, 11 Jun 2018.