The Bread of Life

by

RD Larson

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

Present.

I watch her from beneath my eyelashes; she is more

Beautiful

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,

Remains forever.