poem in which i eat porridge for breakfast

if it’s not winter but it feels like it / we wear
ourselves out to get into it
an elbow caught where the neck goes

spices not to taste but they dry
what would otherwise rot – what’s left
of sweetened tea & cinnamon sticks

a bowl of grains in wool. a breastplate
of oats rolled from one pit
to the other / the grammar that only holds us
so that we don’t know we’re held

the tight swirl of red, a clump
is the heart / a sweat before the sun’s up
although it’s been said many times

many ways / what’s left of all of us
is the base / the grain
that we season out

Charlotte Geater

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