there should be a word
for the smell of bread
that you have never baked
but always meant to bake
there should be a way to say
with a single word, three or
four syllables at most
–this is something i have made
something that you can take in
and let it be a part of you
either a whole meal
or just the sideshow
but it is science and alchemy
and biology and earth mother
this
for you
it should exist as one word
the way the bread is bread
but the crust is hard
savagely so
and the inside chewy
and the scent of yeast
but it is bread
is bread and trying
to divide it into separate dictionary
entries is a sin
Tag: bread
host (20171116)
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
Poem 20151229
someone left a loaf of bread
by the roots of the pine tree
my dog wants to investigate
hoping that there are also
the makings of a sandwich
hidden in the bushes
but he’ll settle
for the wet bread
flavored by needles
and soft grass
Poem 20150826
it’s hard to take
when everyday
you try to bake
something delicious
and no one comes
to the shop
all that bread
gone to waste
that smell of
browned crusts
lost forever
as it dissipates
in the air
pies and cakes
that must be
disposed of
because they won’t last
a single day
beyond
today
Poem 20150216
let that small moment be still
when the coffee is hot and pure
when the bed is warm and the floor is cold
when the bread is warm enough to soften but not melt butter
when the radio plays our favorite song
when your hand seeks out mine
when your breath is in the hollow of my collarbone
when your eyes are half-closed and your mouth half-open
let time stop in his tracks
Poem 20141216
walking home from the store
with hot bread in the bag
i feel the same way
prometheus must have when he stole fire
clutching it to his chest
as he hurried back to civilization
that was before the eagle