Baking Bread

Baking bread is deeply
satisfying. It fills me
with ancient ideas of home
and hearth and wheat grains
golden kerneled in the light,
fed ground into the fire flames,
soaking up the hope of the baker,
the strength in her kneading hands,
her knuckles tough against the dough.
First you beat and kill the mix,
holding it down and stretching it
out, but then
you set it aside,
you leave it alone in a warm dark place
and, later, you return to see
it rise.
On that night, he took the bread
the unleavened passover grain,
and he broke it before them,
passed it around their hands,
fed it into their mouths and nourished
their bodies with his own.
Later,
Mary would return to the warm place where He’d
been left alone, the dark place
where his prostrate body, stretched out and
beaten down,
performed the same domestic miracle
she’d witnessed every day, before,
and she would witness it again
with tears in her disbelieving eyes.
The bread
will always
rise.
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