Moulding the Bread
I have bought the bread.
It is rich with arcane languages,
I recognise them, a fermented
mound of verbs and nouns.
I take the quickened bread and hold it
with closed eyes in my double bed
while you are absent. I place it
in a long plait just where you lie,
where your unfluent tongue rests
behind your lips as you sleep.
The bread doesn’t offer any answer,
only the possibility of adjusting.
Translation defeats even me.
But I feel its urgings. I lay it
on our mattress, below your pillow,
await a pulse of sound, but all is quiet.
In the night, I reach out, press
the soft centre, mould it to my liking.
Sometimes, it is so hot, alive, so hard.
I long to press my tongue, to suck a piece
then sate my hunger.
I have bought bread,