occasional poetry.

I finally remembered to buy sugar so I can make bread next weekend.

Bread

The dough rises in the sun,
history of the human race inside it:
orgies, famines, Christianity,
eras when a man could have his arm
chopped off for stealing half a loaf.
I punch it down, knead the dark
flour into the light, let it bake,
then set it on the table beside the knife,
learning the power
cooks have over others, the pleasure
of saying eat.

by Helena Minton
from Poetry magazine, May 1981

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