found an old poem from baby felix

Don't ask me to string together syllables
abstractions or analyses--like beads
my brain congeals--these days
are thick: concrete, real
with rosetender skin
soured milk smell
squawks and squabbles, babbles
whys and wipes
stepped-on rice grains gluing themselves to socks
my body and my heart on call
to be poured out or spread
for hungry mouths and minds--

Dear god, make me the widow's cup of oil
this drop i have, this last drop
this very last drop
and still finding the last drop there 
to take
with one last fist of flour
hands falling into the familiar knead and press
to bake, again,
into their daily bread