It was the time of thin doves. We lured them with gruel, brought them to mouth. Bones thin as matches we swallowed for small fires having no flint, kindle. It was the year of blood-knuckle, time of empty husk and wither. We could not stumble fast enough toward crumb or crust. We dreamt of loaves never leavened, fish-heads, eggs hidden by dead mothers—pinks shells turned, boiled yolks gone rotten.