They cannot dismantle the bread.
The kitchen wafts of yeast. The field is
Full of people greening. A father flocks
his young, a daughter hands her mother
her cane, though in her mind
she’s still unfettered. A cat oils her paws
with her tongue and
although the billboards tell us otherwise
a kiss is still all that matters. We talked about it
this morning over breakfast before that time
we spend cogging, day after day we blow
the sunlight. They cannot dismantle the bread.
My chick smiles inside my arms’ circle
my soles have brushed so many a flower,
in many a fenceless field. The butter we unfurl
macadamizes the thick slice for chunky marmalade.
They cannot dismantle them either. In our hollow stomach,
they spread a meadow. Our blues and browns and greens
blend the stained glass we’d cut on.
When you blank and I quake
see-through like a tiny snowflake wilting
a crust of bread frames our chests, and out of the blue
fairies sure up the wood in the bones
we’d imagined dismantled. If you let them,
they moulder under the thundering train,
they dismantle at a peep. Or so we figured.
But fingers nudge and irises skew and when
we sunder from the moorings
the lake and the valley fling a line and a buoy,
the crust rounds our lips and the butter
rears our mouths on what it is to quench a rash.
Then, we fit into the river, glide past glittering stones
and circumnavigate fallen branches
some of which firm up the bed never to be dismantled.
In the kitchen at home, riverside on the far side of
the world, in a factory where they make
dried yeast, we eat sandwiches
drink milky tea and talk.
The dog gulps up the crumbs we shed
we speak Everyday and gesture sunlight.
On the wall, we are a big blotty shadow
no one can dismantle.
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