Why did the chipped grains
swirl in butter with onions,
and then become ghostly
when the broth poured.
Umber, straw,
dust of tufa stones—
the mane of gran’s stallion—
husk-protector,
redress to the wind,
hard inversion of rain,
you came from where the stallion
voided over the cliff.
You were a stem downed
by pounding hooves.
When the pot boiled and cooled,
the flying steed of Anatolia
was steam rising to my face.
Ground-broth, silk road,
groats of dead voices,
from snow ledge marshes
you grew across the borderless land.
Here on the kitchen table, steaming
kernels of light shine on plates.