The Amber I Mixed Against a Winter That Has Not Named Itself

They steep cassia bark against a fever with no face yet — four households boiling caution thick and dark, before it comes.

A woman came to my stall for amber and nothing else — no cloth, no measure, only the color, before it comes.

I asked what door she meant to dye shut. She only laughed, the laugh of one who counts a guest before it comes.

Copper climbs a mark a week; the Hall records the climbing — no cause is entered, only the rising, before it comes.

I have mixed a hundred colors, each one for its reason. This was the first I mixed for nothing — before it comes.

Tamar corrects the mothers one by one: no bark, however bitter, builds a wall around a grief before it comes.

I did not correct my customer. My hands took her coin and measured out the fear the same as saffron, before it comes.

Zara, the dread was never in the fever. It was always this — the throat drawn tight around a name, before it comes.