out of the arm of one loaf

and into the arms of another

I have been saved from eating and being cross

by a bread that beats pot

beats songs and stories

and is much softer than the last,

much much softer

and the crumb is just as good or better.

It isn’t pleasant to be hotly crossed and left there,

it is much more pleasant to forget a bun which didn’t

rise

as all yeast

finally

doesn’t rise…

it is much more pleasant to eat

along the crust in Des Moines

in the back room, and afterwards

sitting up in bed

drinking cold milk, your tongue touching

crumbling

softness like a wave…

 

I have tried too many times

kneading and waiting, waiting

for a bloom

staring at a dead starter

waiting for the bubble, the burp, a hiss, a sound…

going hungry inside

while bakers thumped with doughs in kitchens…

out of the arms of one loaf

and into the arms of another

it’s not pleasant to try on corn syrup’s gloss,

it is much more pleasant to hear your heirloom wheat whispered in

the dark.