Mothers to daughters, mothers to daughters. The world is strains of yeast, malts and hops. Once, she mutters, and her daughters lean forward, ears pricked and straining; once there was beer and beer was life and life was beer. Mother’s milk, they orison, water of life.

They arm themselves by night, pitch and tinder. Who are these interlopers, these tellers of tales and spillers of seed? Arc of oil, rainbow of flame. The borders must be defended.

Taps and peanut shells. They take their lives in their hands who drink water. Drink this for health, she cries, for strength! She wears her yeast against the hollow of her breast, the same as her grandmother’s grandmother. Salt bread and prairies.

Her daughters brew revolution.