I would knead you in the afternoon,
in the warmth of a still room,
starting high at the shoulders,
one finger sliding down your spine,
my lips following, tracing the path
of a hummingbird’s flight. Oh, my love,
circumstance and distance, floods and
wildfires, will never truly douse our light.
I wait as the dough rises, and think
in the languages of yeast and water
and flour and salt, how my hands
will feel at your waist, how our day
falls into night, our love firming,
ever expanding through the rising heat.
* * *
“Baking Bread” first appeared in Ristau: A Journal of Being in January 2019. Many thanks to editor Bob Penick for taking this piece.