Praise to the motorized mill!
this stone from my hands,
replaced it with a round stic.
deep in medial sediment, this grinding- then hearth- then touch- stone
preserves the heat of her palms,
the warmth of her work making
from corn grains, masa means
(this poem is corn thinking
corn) and sand grains pasted together
by eons of pressure—then grated, flake by flake, into our meal,
by this girl, singing or bitter, crushed
or sparkling, stone-
pushing girl with delts of one who builds
bodies, knees of a monk—
sandstone manos retire, sometimes, to hearth work,
and girls' hands move, through generations
to new labors, but the working rock
radiates into the heart of this page, the hearth of my breath
moving off like a ghost from a frame, your breath
moving into it.