Love Kitchen

“The tsunami smell of yeast inundated our house
the mornings our mother baked bread
up through floorboards it came up the stairwell
it spread stirring our dreamselves alive
fresh loaves, bells for the nose
their toll sent sleep from somnolent heads,”
I’d written, thinking of her hands in flour,
shaking it through a sifter, the table strewn
with the tools of her art and the stuff she teased
and expertly blended with little need to measure
knowing by site and weight what it took
to fold love and matter into sweet gifts
in her confectionery mill, her love kitchen

Jim Culleny,