She does not know how beautiful she is
manipulating these bits of rare heart into Sunday bread
destined to be fed to strangers and regulars alike

Kneaded from a glutinous recipe of individual qualities
into a large tan mound of grain and Gaia
then parsed into balls of doughy selfhood
and left to rise beneath the moistened towel of her loving gaze

The engine of yeast catches spark
accelerating the flour-power VW from germ to Bug to van

Now parked in a hot metal womb
these loaves fight the regular losing battle against startling heat
growing crust like a forearm covering eyes against a glazing sun
its last moisture scurries inward toward an unseared center
sidestepping small oases of herb, past the faint siren song of spice
on its frantic, inward plunge

The final hints of moist gather Custer-like at the Little Big Horn of evaporation
just as the door to the "next life" is lowered and the sleek birth slap
of the thin wood paddle slips in and slides out

They wait, steaming now, these fragrant, grainy rotund lambs
culled from the shelf-borne herd and delivered
stork-like to the singular tables of conjugal society

Broken and dabbed in communal olive oil
sliced and slabbed with churned yellow
dipped in simmering soup
sopped in spirited gravy

then gone in the blink of a meal
the chewed career over in a gulp

The daughters and sons of the kneading mother
sweep the tables clear, a crumby obituary

While back in the kitchen of heaven the original goddess sighs
gazes through a break in the clouds (called the order window)
awaits the wind's delivery of a new song of hunger

She does not know how beautiful she is

for Donna Viertel of the Clove Cafe in High Falls, NY