The bread that comes out of me feeds my family
I use the starter my mother made
From pungent placenta that clung to the jar.
From a culture of residue and detritus
Is born a sticky, wet dough steaming hotter
than the air around it. I drop the mass
In the bowl and cover it by shovels with flour,
that is, dust, clogging my nostrils, a cloud about my head.
Eventually, I will absorb the dirt
and I will knead and need until I see straight
through like viscera exposed.
The mess upon my hands is difficult to clean.
I score and scorch and something in me dies
but the offering that comes out is fragrant;
I resist until I can no longer take it
I make my working table neat,
and then I sit
and break and eat.