There was talkativeness, and in the talkativeness, mistakes and discoveries. Wives, slaves, divorcees, lovers, widows, daughters, not all mothers. Khadija Smith from misty meadows, narrows her eyes down, back on paper. Mutilated events, she repeats, for these were haunted men. Second boil, and third.
Brown foam vanishes miraculously from the simmering surface at the fourth boil.
The aluminium pot with the long handle rattles, then rests. And if I was writing, I'd say the nightmare wasn't over yet. Open, oversized windows on the south-east side invite in the sounds of the wheatfield swaying in the city desert breeze. Wheatstalks sway, humming. Mules blink long lashes in the dusk, tied up and resting.