the millstone turns heavy
powered by blood
torrents of thick red
jam coagulating where it pools
and there’s no grist to grind
only chaff left
from the threshing floor
but grind it does
the wheel grinds
it is all it knows how to do
and so it turns and grinds
we bake our bread
with rough husk flour
we bake our poor loaves
black on the coals
of our ancestors’ bones
bitter is the crust
with no spot of fat
to grease the pitted stone
that is our only sustenance
and nothing to wash it
down but overflowing glasses of
gall bitter from our own hands
this is our bread
our communion
Words and Feathers 
I fall in love with your dark poem again and again! I’m also reminded of Jack and the Beanstalk when the Giant bellows: “Be he alive or be he dead, we’ll grind his bones to make my bread!”
You always say the nicest things about my work. I think I’ll keep you.
Good! I despise being returned.
Never!
Powerful and visceral!
Thank you so much.
My pleasure 😇
Difficult to like this one – so visceral.
I understand completely. Like isn’t the word that springs to mind, is it?
So many beautiful words.
I love poems here. Hugs !
Thanks very much! Welcome to the site. I hope to see you around here.
I also! With Smile