broth ovenbird You want to taste the broth of your own becoming. You want to know what has been simmering, so long and so slow, and you don’t want to share, at least not with greedy mouths who will spill you down their shirts and take more than their stomachs can hold. You want to spoon yourself out slowly, blood red as beet root. You want to bring the silver bowl of your heart to gentle lips that part with reverence and hold the essence of you on their tongue. You don’t want to be consumed, you want to be savoured. You want someone to dip their finger into the heat at your center and lick it clean. You want to be salted. You want someone to cut your bitterness with vinegar and stir up everything that was allowed to char. You want to be left alone. Then you want to be found. You want your name to taste of dill and marrow, and to be known. 260901 what's it to you? who go blather from