Plugging in the portable heater and pulling it toward my legs I remembered
The braziers under the round table at the finca you brought us to
In the Spanish hills. It was January, a searingly cold afternoon, and in a cave-like room
We sat with the sisters who worked there, the tablecloth pulled over our thighs . . .
And we might all have been knitting together, or divvying provisions;
It was a sudden, short-lived society, and in between envisioning all the accidents
Born from live embers near legs and beneath cloth, I experienced the little