...each sister paints her from memory. Hands in the paint, dressing in the drain. We catalogue the recipes and hangs them from limbs One pentimento canvas after another; the maternal body like tree bark layered with ribbons of broth. A perfect dumpling moon rises like the edible parts of our family addictions - a mother’s proud dimples before thinning whisked into soup and shushed into night burl where her weathered feet wither and rest silent night ferns folding back onto themselves on the forest floor. We eat her body whole for the holiday lick the bones clean with our salt lick tears pour her ashes into a honeycomb jar.