by Hadley Griggs
We made you, pressing your dusty warm skin between out longing palms, piling you up on my chipped, pink plate. We made you, our fingers dripping egg yolks and desperate whispers onto my stained table. We made you, while he said with parched lips that you made him ache for home, asked can you try using chopsticks? We made you together, wrapping you skin like we were folding tiny arms, putting you on the plate like you were each praying to God.