They made pan dulce

Two days and nights, while rain fell and floods

broke over levees, the bakers sifted sugar and flour

for hundreds of loaves of bread. There is consequence

to this simple act and its defiance of logic—

that they chose to stay and feed their labor to the fire,

that they tore off knobs of their hearts to silence

their own sadness and fear. The yeast foamed and rose

as if to make way for a watery idol waking from sleep.

And when, from capsized houses, the newly untethered

waded into the night, the mattress merchant opened

his shops and children quickly climbed into armchairs

and beds preparing to be borne away, anyway,

by a cruel tide. One could call that bread sweet,

which fills the mouth and the belly with softness

and warmth. After a few days, if it hardens,

one could break off a piece to soften in a cup

of coffee the color of silt, the color of mud.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Corporeal.

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