Brown Bread

by sibyllene   Sep 18, 2011


To begin,
we slip off our rings.
Wedding bands, diamonds, teak-carved
promises go by the sink
next to our watches.
Romances and clocks belong to the men who
stride in from forest and garage, sloughing off
their boots and offering groceries. We kiss them and
send them to the next room.

We squeeze and press the floured dough, warm
and giving. People were made
from bread, not clay.
We make doughy man bellies and slap them
genially; we make doughy old woman hips and pinch them
with affection; we pound our bread happily
onto the cold granite.

It powders our knuckles, and
dries onto the backs of our hands like glue.

Surely a woman discovered this.
Surely only a woman could trust
this slow, mysterious expansion,
this steady rising, this
long gestation of yeast and sugars.

There is rain pattering dolefully
outside the warm kitchen.
The world is narrowed, focused, softened, bright.
Only we know when to let the bread rest.
Only we know when to let it go.

    report violation
1


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Latest Comments

  • 9 years ago

    by silvershoes

    I love your powerful sense of womanhood. I will never have that. I relate to the men striding in from forests and garages. Still, you make me fall in love with the quiet strength that belongs only to women.

    Went through ten or so of your poems tonight. Truly lovely. Sigh.

  • 10 years ago

    by Robin A Walter

    Great piece on Briwn Bread. Never would have thought of something so earthy, common, down to earth and so filled with heart and realism. Many thanks.

  • 11 years ago

    by Michael D Nalley

    This is a very romantic and well written poem that makes me wonder if man really needs more than bread alone
    I really enjoyed reading this

  • 11 years ago

    by Michael D Nalley

    This is a very romantic and well written poem that makes me wonder if man really needs more than bread alone
    I really enjoyed reading this

  • 12 years ago

    by Ste

    I'm not sure, as a Man, I'm allowed to even read the V word. However, putting my frial testosterego (my word copyrighted!) to one side, I read this with a warm smile. Vive la difference always. Nurturing, growing. Its a very wholesome poem. I suppose I will stick to wrangling cattle.
    Thumbs up!

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