Bread

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Bread

That year we learned the true language of fear.
I baked boule and you haunted medical sites.

You said to arrive I must first depart
or be willing to suffer self-awareness. Let’s not

mention our pact just yet. My basic boule requires a
Dutch oven, 20 ounces of flour, water, yeast and salt.

At twenty I learned the finer points
of sausage-making, how to butcher chicken, and

that your hair smelled like dawn’s last flower.
Back then we owned the night. Now I harvest

wild yeast and sharpen pencils, make to-do lists,
pour Chianti, run numbers. I agreed

to your proposal. It would be a kindness, you said.
The pancreas produces hormones

and aids digestion. I chopped off my left thumbtip
and a year later the abscission point

still felt numb. After rolling the dough
into a ball, let it proof for an hour in an oiled bowl.

We shared a taste for sharp cheese
but never agreed on pillows. You loved

down comforters and found vultures fascinating.
Years together honed our lives

but we never considered what that meant. Score
the dough, bake it for 30 minutes with the lid on,

remove the lid and bake for another 15.
Kneading resembles breathing: in,

out. Rise, fall. Bright lights made your eyes water,
so I kept them dimmed. You swallowed

and said “Tell me how to knead bread.”
With the heel of your right hand, push down

and forward, applying steady pressure.
The dough should move under your hand.

Within minutes it will transform.

* * *

“Bread” was first published in Extract(s) in April 2015.

pillows

137 thoughts on “Bread”

  10. You said to arrive I must first depart— this is profound.
    Lord Shiva – the destroyer – is also the creator of all arts. His dance of destruction – Tandon Nastya – is also the beginning of all sublimely beautiful dance forms.

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  15. This is a stunning poem. The two thoughts, baking bread and the memory of a loved one’s illness entwined is wonderful. I can’t even point out a particular line because it’s the whole (although kneading is like breathing–I will never again knead dough without thinking that.)

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  25. We are all better off for the way you answered that proposal. And also, if by some strange exigency of fate I’m only allowed to carry one object wherever I wander in this life, let it be a Dutch oven!

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  28. What a loving poem. The sensuality of the bread and wife references…very romantic. And adding the “realism” of injury and illness through which you remain together… the supreme romance of familiarity. Beyond genius… we’ll have to invent a word that properly positions you are a poet of reality, making bread and love into words… a master chef of semantic cuisine.

    It is not prose or poetry but the Okaji Sector; like the Twilight Zone except that every episode ends with edible enlightenment.

    You are a Pulitzer Prize level poet… you are a god…

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      • VIet Nam has all sorts of great dishes, too many to mention. I am not a gourmand though, so my definition of great is rather plebeian. The coffee though? Magic. The South Korean (dolsot) bebimbap was great as always.

        But there will NEVER be anything as soul stirring and comforting as sitting outside of my local run down laundromat at night under an awning watching the rain fall while I wait for a load of clothes to finish drying while eating a full order of takoyaki with mayonnaise on top (in Amagasaki, Japan when I lived there).

        The BEST takoyaki in the world is made in Amagasaki, period, and since it was a really powerful, positive time in my life I have serious nostalgia for it.

        If there is a Heaven, then I hope everyone speaks Japanese and eats takoyaki all day and night… THAT is Heaven to me… and all the greatest women in the world have names like MIyuki and Koharu.

        I dream of a Paradise where we are all named Tanaka!! 🙂

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      • I have heard that about the coffee. Perhaps someday I’ll have the opportunity to try it. I have similar nostalgic feelings about skipping school and buying a loaf of bread, a few grams of prosciutto, and some slices of mozzarella di bufala, and wandering around downtown Bella Napoli, Naples, Italy, in the 70s. Hard to duplicate such strong sensory input. 🙂

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  30. Reading this poem is like breathing in emotions and releasing memories. I love how you plait together two different realities, two different experiences and use them to counterbalance each other. This technique reminds me of Henry Reed’s “Naming of Parts.” Amazing. Beautiful. Evocative….Wonderful.

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  45. Such a beautiful image. I actually got tears in my eyes. My mom was always known for her famous cinnamon bread. She made it every year for Christmas and gifted it to all our friends, family, and neighbors. She would make hundred of loaves. We had to buy a separate freezer just to store them because she’d have to start baking in November to get all the bread done in time. It was tradition for my sister and I to help her with the final stage. Kneading the dough and then rolling it with cinnamon and sugar. My mom can’t bake her famous bread anymore, but the lessons we learned from her generous spirit and patient teaching lives on. I am grateful for your words reminding me of this.

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