Member-only story
BAKING BREAD
A poem about building out of a bad start.
(Lois Hunt for HERZ)
A woman’s hands:
My knuckles have been cut by many rocks worn as rings
And dragged too across gravel
Each time I reached for flour there were bruises I hid
in White powdery coatings
Too speechless to hum. But mumbling
Forgetting to wash juices from the rolling pin
(which had lunged too deep)
The rock and gravel hands of a woman kneading
all meaning of many days into a sticky dough
And choosing not to pray
In fact, rocking with weariness at the thought of
more prayers
These long fingers on the hands of a woman sifting
through White powder
Her eyes bruising clocks. Her lips cracked from worry.
Forgetting to wash juices from the rolling pin
humming Janis Joplin on Bird Avenue again
Climbing above the gnashing of teeth
Tasting salt and yeast/ coughing
Forgetting to wash bodily fluids from the rolling pin
