Today I will make bread:
Butter. Eggs. Olive oil.
Water. Milk. Flour. Salt.
No yeast. Baking powder instead.
Knead lightly, roll out, cut into small portions.
Brush with egg. Sprinkle with sesame seeds.
Bake until golden brown. Rejoice.
Poor orphans, your mothers and fathers are dead.
No more your good-smelling grandfather.
No more your grandmother, her wise and angry voice.
Hold out your hands, dear ones.
Let me fill them with bread.
A great cry goes up, the cry of ten thousand starving birds.
Pleading eyes. Empty hands. Faces smudged with sweat and dirt.
Swollen tongues. Frail limbs. Nails like wild claws.
Take. Eat. You are the bones of this body now.
You are a rainbow, rising from a river of blood.
Take. Eat. Turn this bread to song.
The earth is an upturned ear. Listening, listening.
My hearth is an altar blackened by fate.
Every brick remembers. Every brick knows.
The orphans have eaten all the stars.
Looking for them, the night has gone mad.
She finds a door. Let me in, she cries. Let me in.
January 15, 2006
Previous Entry Next Entry Return to Songs and Letters About the Author
Many of the poems on this site are available in print editions.
A Listening Thing
Among the Living
No Time to Cut My Hair
One Hand Clapping
Songs and Letters
Early Short Stories
Cosmopsis Print Editions
News and Reviews
Favorite Books & Authors
E-mail & Parting Thoughts
Flippantly Answered Questions