ashcake

Mom is snatching my arm, is yanking me forward and I am fighting, I am scorching at the stories she told with her hands rubbing my flu-ridden young body, the first time she let me bake ashcake alone, the first time we harvested and my skin is tearing and what is left of me is pooling forth and I know, I know what it was for my ancestors to burn with the anger and love of the earth and the lava on their bodies.

Mom smashes all our ashcakes. Without a word, her face glimmering in the light.