The ease and openness
in measuring teaspoons and half cups,
the science of sugar in yeast,
taupe milk water, rising into foam,
stirring hard with hand carved
red wooden spoons that fold and push.
The kneading, greasing the bowl,
rubbing olive oil into her palms
and backs of her hands
while his find the coffee pot,
mug, cream, doorknob,
but never the small
of her back or nape of her neck.

The wait and watching
something live bubbling, growing.
The punching, further kneading,
banging of cupboards, and throwing
of flour onto granite. Slapping
the soft fleshy round, shaping it
into something more full, round.
The smack and crack of egg white
whisked and brushed on for darkness.
The slashes cut diagonally,
for steam, the safe release of rage:
words she doesn’t mean
said to the loaf with no ears.