This is how I cook my grief

I pick fresh hearts from the street

The most defeated ones

With nimble fingers, I steal the tears

I fill rusted sardine tins with the smell of sorrow.

Mothers’ glances cling tightly to their eyes

But I snatch them swiftly, because I resemble their children.

In a copper pot,

I boil what I stole

And add blood that hasn't absorbed

And sawdust from a coffin that was meant as the door to his new home

I pour the mixture into my heart

Until it blackens

This is how I cook my grief.