The Baker’s Oven

I sit quiet as an eye resting in a soft white cloth after I’ve been burned alive, crumbs stuck in folds.

I am not a poet (I write prose), but I can be a know-it-all and laugh. Haha! That’s enough! 

But when I strike a cracker of gold in a dark room, I hit a blind strength of sight overtaking me like a thump of dough enfolding my light soul. 

All words have been said before and so I hollow like leaven molding caverns in a molting corpse. I can reach for nothing in the oven, appetite running into the bright white I’ve been washed in.

My fingers freeze at the crisp touch of the iron door. 

Hunger laid its eggs in the sun (a rolled bit of gold burning my dry, fissured soul) and a warm loaf of baked bread lodged in my throat, breathless, and the honey of my unvoiced poetry like a lump I cannot swallow. 

The baker told me, “Young man, strong, and life of sight never dimming, what makes you a great man,” he slid a weighty clump into the oven, “when you have none of summer’s sugar? So crawl into the sun before night’s over, because the pilot light never runs out.” He grinned and threw his hands into a shiny tin of flour and wiped down the wooden pin. 

I eat a strange, sweet pastry in the heated, heaving chest of the crackling, brick seat. Next to nests, is this the only humid cavity that rears rising meat with human fears…?

Touch me or kiss me or something. Maybe I could convince myself that I am in love. I am not a lover, but I can eat bread and laugh…is that enough?  

I was trapped inside and burned. Now I am alive and I see you standing to my right.

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