Sunday Poem

Sweet Bread

It is a terrible struggle she tells me,
pulling dough from the bowl. Waking
up every morning for sixty-five years,
over forty next to him. He says you
snore, I offer and she rolls the dough
tighter, twisting it around itself
until the edges are sealed shut.
She drops it in the pan and I shine
the top with egg, ignoring the silence
that rises as we work. When he walks in,
the floor shifts beneath us, old boards heaving.
I know there are things that can’t be fixed.
Know it even stronger as I watch her
slap more dough on the table, as he takes
the empty bowl and washes it without
a word. And later, we eat the bread
in silence, its sweet crust flaking
into pieces too small to taste.
.
by Christine Klocek-Lim
from How to Photograph the Heart
The Lives You Touch Publications, 2009

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