The wheat dough sits on the window sill

moist from the Texas heat blowing

across its skin, kissed on occasionally by

the knead of her hands,

sinking into its flesh,

fingers exploring,

discovering the ribbons

of each strand so delicately

waiting to be cradled between

her palms, flour off the dew

and then rolled to perfection,

twisted between her digits

like the quick moves of

a magician.

Seeing is believing,

but the real show lies in what's

behind door number two

where she pulls the food of the gods into

its determined configuration,

a bread resemblng the finest

twists of a renaissance maiden's hair,

wash it over in rich liquid shine,

brushed on in the seductively slow strokes

of her finest brush thrust deep into

the mixture and dripping with promises

of the feast to come.

Roll it and pat it and mark

it with her lips upon what will soon be

golden ripe and filling,

ready for the heat,

open oven waiting to be filled

with the savory morstel she's displaying,

a baker's dozen, for she always exceeds,

pleasure played for the dining room table,

public display 'cept one dark confection

she's kept for herself,

safely tucked in a basket lined

with silk, the one she'll take home

and share with no one.

Waiting for the first touch,

the first spread of hot butter,

silky smooth confection to

moisten the lips, the daughter

of the wheat blowing gently

in the baker's fields awaits

its first taste of

her mouth, lying still in

the basket of silk,

patience and peace in knowing

this union was meant to be.

The invitation Eat Me rises

on the aroma filling her nostrils,

the wine wetting her apetite even more

as she nibbles on baked brie and

a pomegranite seed, rolls it over

her satin tongue, breaking

the ruby curtain and exposing the core

right before she -

Take and eat, this is my body

given for you . . .

Candles burn softly into mounds

of yesterday's light, the final

shadows of the night floating

on the smoldering wisp of smoke

making its way out the open window.

Sheets once pristine now wrinkled

for all that remained between the crystal

and fine china after the baker's delight

was an exhausted culinary majestrate,

the silk from the basket

draped royally across the front of

her firm erect breasts,

and a few crumbs sprinkled here and there

upon her bed.

'Tis fair to say she was quite consumed

and very well fed, and when she awakes,

she will go to the bin, take the ambrosia in her hands

and do it again and again and again,

under the spell of the culinary madame

whose ability to please has no end. 

Amen.