alvarado and the rising
Rose Gelfand


once, some monks passing through
convinced a small village
to make god out of nothingness—​
broth from breath,
bread out of bone.

here, today
we converge in this soup’s honor
church of sprouting fists
sculpting brown mounds
into something
worth holding.

youth is learning
to carve a person
out of a body. 

palms ripe with being,
we pour ourselves
to the wind.


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