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Upon Hearing that “Bread is the Way Sun Enters Our Body” by Dennis Camire
I feel this need to knead on my knees
And praise the daily “tran-sun-stantiation”
Of sun into whole grain calories via
T he Holy ghost of yeast. And kudos
To pepperoni pizza dough now morphing
Into these acned teens of Helios
While the bread sticks become nothing-less
T han batons of this God-force handed off
To hungry loved ones so, in mere contemplation
Of a “single grain of whole wheat,”
T hey might finally cross the
Finishing line into the divine!
Oh yes, bless the shamans of our bakers
Keeping those stone oven temples’ fired
To coax golden Goddesses inside honey wheat
To continue illumining the skyline of every slice!
And after we caffeinate conversations
By singing how each sweet portly, pastry
“Is just sun made up in so much make-up”—
Or by declaring “the solar flare of each éclair”—
Or by shimmying in kind to “the northern lights’
Cosmic cursive espied in the marbled rye”—
Consider, finally, the sourdough’s soul’s
Own second rising when musing
How that same sun beams through
T he doughy body’s own celestial abode
So our neurons feel the same heat
As those distant rings of Neptune do—
And our membranes glow for the same reason
As any of the solar system’s marvelous moons—
And sun, bread, and body s are now just one
Heeding us, surely, to feel the vitamin d of delight
As her hand, say, alights and tans your thigh—
Or to know the solar radiation of a soul
So freely giving love over to your blue being—
Which fathoms, now, how that sacred moment
Of silence before breaking open the loaf
Is heightened by looking into one another’s eyes
And recognizing all the sunshine in disguise.
Happy Birthday Emily
In Winter in my Room
I came upon a Worm—
Pink, lank and warm—
But as he was a worm
And worms presume
Not quite with him at home—
Secured him by a string
To something neighboring
And went along.
A Trifle afterward
A thing occurred
I’d not believe it if I heard
But state with creeping blood—
A snake with mottles rare
Surveyed my chamber floor
In feature as the worm before
But ringed with power—
The very string with which
I tied him—too
When he was mean and new
That string was there—
I shrank—”How fair you are”!
“Afraid,” he hissed
He fathomed me—
Then to a Rhythm Slim
Secreted in his Form
As Patterns swim
That time I flew
Both eyes his way
Lest he pursue
Nor ever ceased to run
Till in a distant Town
Towns on from mine
I set me down
This was a dream.
The Family Muse by Sarah White
Pity the Muse
in our house: Mother’s
paintings hidden in the attic
like clandestine Jews.
a seldom-tuned piano,
refusing the arpeggios
of “Clair de Lune”
a teenage boy reciting
“Gunga Din” complete
with Cockney sounds—You ‘eathen,
where the mischief ‘ave you been?
. . . I ‘ope you liked your drink,
and he dies—
me laughing, lurching
from the room, vowing
to become a poet
and show my own book
to my brother,
who would never look:
“Poems make me feel
like a boob.”
But wait. Once, he and I
took a class and shared
a set of soft pastels.
He fashioned me an easel
I could balance on a table
and it all went well.
The Muse—that floozy
friendly with Debussy—
saw what we could do, us two,
and was so surprised
and dropped her harp.
Nominated for a Pushcart Prize. This poem appears in to one who bends my time by Sarah White.