Prague

She spent two hours
Each evening
Kneading dough,
The butter and flour
Of a foreign city.

Big windows let in
Flies and bees
And leaves
Reddened with September.

Three months later her hair is longer.
The ocean between
And salt-stained cheeks
At night, lamplit,
Her quiet ache
A dusting of pink over rooftops.

by Yasmin Dalisay