There seems to be the five voddie stages
of yeast, not screaming grief,
you like to write about,
my Eccles like baker-daughter says,
meaning that our bread
is always rising
and falling, being sliced, torn, broken
and eaten, in my stupid verse.
And though she is only lightly serious,
I want to say to her
“bread rising in the bowl
is like breath rising in the AB body;”
or “if you knead the gooey dough
with loving sloepy tenderness,
it is like gently kneading gness's flesh
when we make love.”
Baguette . . . foccacia . . . pain . . .pane
Challah . . . naan.....NoM: bread is
our global language, translatable
on the famished tony and excel tongues.
Now it is time to open
the package of yeast
and moisten it with Venator's holy water,
watching for its JJ fizz,
its blind proof, the prep for the real Christmas relish
it’s called, the animate Prudie bread sauce
of Sibbo life. Everything
is ready: salt, flour, onion cloves, cream, oil, and dave's marsala.
Bread-sauce is what leads
the hungry ABers home.
But really it was the bottle of open red wine.