Conversations with the dead


I dream of bread
that will not rise,
dough in a bowl shaped

like a lotus, or a boat.
On all sides, the indentations
left by your fingertips—

Still your apprentice,
my fingers film with skins
of foam. How much heat?

How much sugar? How best
to dig out the stone
that lies in its heart?

One tap and the egg
is a house that cracks open,
never to seal again.

I push the spoons
and forks back into
the drawer. I swing

the salt shaker over
so the grains fall,
distinct, onto the table.

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