Breaditations
I. MEASURE; MIX
two cups of lukewarm water
the temperature of our beating hearts
two and a half teaspoons yeast
dropped without warning
one teaspoon of sea salt
since we could not cry for fear
a quarter cup of oil
we learned to count it out
one cup of wheat flour
fourteen days self-isolation
two cups of wheat flour
sudden rising unemployment
three cups of wheat flour
countries closing borders
four cups of wheat flour
all those days inside the house
five cups of wheat flour
hospital capacity and ICU beds
one last half-cup for good measure
untested, infected, transmitted, dead
my hands are sticky with dough
their throats were choked with tubes
my hands are sticky with dough
the crematoria ran day and night
my hands are sticky with dough
we were not prepared for this
my hands are sticky with dough
mercy, lord, have mercy on us
II. KNEAD
We read the news from Wuhan, from Italy,
tuned in faithfully to Angela, Boris, Donald, Justin,
while the county health units counted bodies.
We learned what the bakers have always known
about rough handling, the imputation of strength,
how the dough only becomes resilient
after it goes through a painful surrender.
The news pummeled us with statistics and warnings.
We learned to absorb the shuddering blows
as our souls became windowpane-thin.
III. RISE
Wear your mask
out on the street.
Beware the leaven
of the Pharisees.
Activate, foment,
incubate, rise.
Rise up, rise
up—
Uprise.
IV. BAKE
What the bread gave us back was time:
carte-blanche permission to stop, to rest,
to relish the impossibility of rush or hurry.
We could spend our minutes kneading dough,
shaping loaves, carefully feeding a starter
we had given an improbable name.
We sat on kitchen floors and waited
while it rose, waited while it baked,
while it cooled, letting the time run out
between our fingers like sand.
Flower Power (non-medical mask) by Darlene Kulig
