new poem : the world should end

with dough rising in warm bowls, towels holding in the yeasty exhalations of floured mounds

with the oven warming, hands stretching the dough – braiding it as the dough takes it space, rests on baking sheets

in small, walk-through kitchens, the oven waking up the heat in our homes

smelling of salt and water and wheat, warming the air

with butter, pulled from a cool fridge, moistness collecting at the top, the plate cool to the touch, butter knives showing how soft we’ve gotten

at a table full of those we adore, who are here or have already left – the whole house foggy with the steam of fresh bread pulled open by smooth hands

with an offering to the things that made us, the things we have made, the things we were given that brought us here