The Bread of Life
I follow her. I am talking; she doesn't listen.
She tells me she is busy; I tell her I have been hurt. She looks,
But I can see in her eyes, that
Such little blood is unimportant, I do know that.
I ask her if I can help; she shakes her head.
"No, Baby, it is better if I do this myself."
I sit in a chair, turning face cards down; she is absent, if
I watch her from beneath my eyelashes; she is more
Than any movie star because she is so alive.
Turning here, bending and stretching, she is
Graceful and quick,
Not a wasted movement.
I watch her began to knead the bread.
It speaks of creation to me.
I am in awe as the dough becomes smoother, firmer.
And, somehow, softer.
I turn over a Jack of Hearts
As he walks through the door.
He is taller than I; older and
More loved in everyway.
No wonder. He is perfection,
Born of her dream and in her image.
I watch in absolute silence
As, bread forgotten, she gathers him
Into her mother-warmth.
The bread loses its shape;
It falls over on its own self.
I see it is hardly bread-to-be
Now, that Mother has her son.
The Jack of Hearts has a drop
Of my blood curling on it.
I shrink into my inner soul;
The terror always there,
© 2005 RDLarson