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I keep meaning to ask my brother:
Did our mother really always bake bread
Or was it just occasional
Am I misremembering
In some internal rendering to
create a treasured memory
that makes her as exceptional
as I want her to be.

I think about this while kneading dough
Against the counter
Feeling the memory of
Slap stretch turn
Slap stretch stretch turn
Minutes on end
The memory in my hands
The memory in the scent
The memory in the feel of the
Yielding dough
In the heel of my hand
Slap stretch turn
Slap stretch stretch turn

NaPoWriMo #3

2 thoughts on “Baking bread

  1. Lovely poem. It doesn’t matter if she always made bread. It matters that she made it enough. Kneading bread is moving meditation. Something very grounding about it.

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