Ode to an unknown baker

 

To you who makes pastry from air.

The puffed pace of your breathing

The dry, steady palms

The gather, the yield.

The dust become flesh.

 

 

I know a bit of that turn,

but not much

sticky kneading still quickens

my lungs through my fingers

and I once thought that I

--I was young, in my pride--

could fill a small pocket of dough

with unpracticed spice and raw pork.

 

So—

I know there is more than a recipe, that

there’s more even than a memory, and certainly

more than platitudes about love.

And I don’t know you

Like I don’t know most people

rough edge of your fingers

the thrill of your tongue.

 

But there’s a hot whisper

that rises in pastry.

a self-knowing that tempers

and shines off the dough.

for the hand that will break it

escaping in vapor

a moment has passed

while another one lingers.

 

and I don’t know you,

like I don’t know most people.

Not the pace of your breathing

Your dry steady palms.

Your gather, your yield.

Your dust become flesh.