11 November 2012

Daily Bread

we have the windex for
that glass ceiling and
though we may not tread
a crystal stair
we see clearly.

from hob of hearth, to
microwave oven, we are the heat
at the center of the
kitchen, grinding grain into
flour, dreams into written-out

mixing, with the spoon of
self-assurance, the dough
that will rise, impervious to
death, disappointment, slighting-speech

rising, in the face of all
resistance, to their fullest
forms, sliced for sustenance,
this, her daily bread

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