In French, Pain Means Bread

The French call seafood
“fruits de mer.”
As if it is not blood pulsing
steadily through the salmon,
but nectar. As if the crab’s shell
could be eased off
as gently as oranges peel.
Picture the soldier dying
in an alleyway.
His wounds burning hot
as dough in the oven,
the chalky stench of gunpowder in his nose
turning to glazed pastries.
All that blood pouring out
and him just standing there gaping,
thinking of his father’s bakery.