a friend calls it anxiety bread
something basic about bread
whether it’s a memory of mum
hands floury while you touch a block of yeast
alien grey and slimy
whether it’s from bakery, still too-warm and crisp
arguing with your brother over the first bit
something basic about bread
when I first left my country
bread was one thing missing
I enjoyed the newness of reality
but Americans don’t make the bread I’ve been eating
pilgrimaging to Italian bakery, needed
the taste and the crunch of a loaf that’s been kneaded
the novelty items were all very nice
but I wanted something that wasn’t pre-sliced
there’s something basic
(and that’s still without
the half-choking, half-childlike memory entwined
cold insides of church, invoke bread and wine
melting on my tongue, wafer of divine)
even that aside
something ancient and knowing about grain and life
about mixing the flour and letting it rise
and just maybe
if your pantry still boasts
enough that you can easily have a bit of toast
to cut into soldiers, serve with beans or jam
under a poached egg or a piece of ham
then just maybe
you can be okay
for one more day
Good Enough Diary 
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