Making Bread by Breda Spaight

Today, I thought of how flour rained
like hourglass grains through your sturdy fingers,
not yet knowing yourself,
standing at the head of the table, certain,
as your hands and your mother’s hands before
delved in a bowl to make bread.
Sunlight primrosed the kitchen,
Venetian blinds raised to a new day, the host-white
twin-tub plugged into a socket wired from
the sacred heart lamp.
You worked with blood - even wiped it from pullets’ eggs,
made butter in a brown bottle, prayed to a priest’s
back on Sunday, while on the radio, politicians
spoke of their economic plan.

I leave you at the head of the table, the lifelines
of your palms vanishing again and again in folds of dough.

I view the scene as you yourself would watch a hawk
hover over the chicken-run -
your heart throbbing, the scream
in your throat.


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