artwork: ralph murre
Of Bread
by
Jean Feraca
It
doesn’t matter that the house isn’t locked.
Without
you, it’s empty as an oven
of
its loaves
I
want neither your ham nor your cheese
nor
your oysters and white
wine
I
want the yeast of you, making me rise
til
I split, two halves
in
your teeth
and
the butter melting, the hot bran
your
yam-yellow light spilling
your
honey seeping all through the comb
Not
this house with its darkening oak.
Not
that table laid with its cold
plates.
~
previously published in Wisconsin Poetry,
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