Knead
from Spirit Echoes, page 2
ISBN 1-9311002-29-0
Petaluma, 2003
My hands sink deep, deeper,
down into the soft, supple dough
warm, moist, and sticky. Fingers kneading
palpable lumps. While sleep residue clings
to my skin like specks of dirty salt. Torrid air escapes
from the pitch-dark oven cavern. Hot flash collides
with cold rush from the open window, making a
steam bath worthy of sharing. Your lean body poses,
poised and pausing , straddling the boundary between
last night and today. Hawk-eyes prey for an exit.
As you bend, slick as shea butter, picking up
limp, used clothes from the hardwood floor. Pants
and boxers playing hide-and-seek beneath the
heavy iron bed. Pungent Red Star perfume fills
my wide and waiting nostrils, as bread rises up,
the yeast of yesterday’s passion. You fumble with
the brass doorknob, unlatch the lock. Shoes leave
impressions in the carpet, creating a trail of sifted
flour finality along the musky corridor. A memento
of your conquest, consummated to your self-satisfaction.
But me, I have wants, still, and discontent that beats,
and pounds and kneads. In the winter morning I bake bread.