Up to your elbows
in yeast and flour,
you smiled, hummed
followed no recipe
texture of the dough
your own small empire
My father bit his tongue
though the muscles
at his temple and jaw
worked endlessly
the tension in the air
spring-loaded
You a guest in his home
a few days each year
A son’s duty
His unspoken contempt
for you and all the times before
thick in the room
He spoke once of sheets
hanging shredded in the wind
raveled hems of dishtowels
plucked away by birds
The deep shame of laundry
left overnight on a clothesline
Years later the perfect loaves
you bake as penance emerge
from the oven tasting
of guilt and sorrow
a mother’s contrition
Header photograph © Asher.
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