And the heart of the matter.

white and purple cloud

They come to see us, hungry for our size.

Look at our faces. We tower. They dance.

One says, walk slower. One says, closer.

There are more of us now, as though prayers.

Into clouds. No command is needed from this height.

They sing us. A dirge, they sing for beloveds

and the birds call back. From their ovens,

the smell of bread. When they taste,

they will look. Up, they will see us,

our suspended faces

against sky. 


Inspired by a recent New York Times article about Peter Schumann’s Bread and Puppet Theater.

Author: Stacey C. Johnson

I keep watch and listen, mostly in dark places.

5 thoughts on “Bread”

  1. Ever since our escape from the hell of paradise, we have tried to take revenge for the supposed apple, and all we accomplished was solitary bread-making. How pathetic to be a man!

    I love your poem.

    1. Maciej, thank you for this delightful twist in perspective! I shall be chewing on this wonderful phrase, “hell of paradise.” : )

      1. So grateful that you shared that, as I’ve gotten behind on my reading this week. : )

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