Sometimes my dreams are almost like found poems. I’m not sure why I stumbled upon this one in my sleep last night, but perhaps words — like good bread — are best when shared.
Demeter in the Kitchen
The still house at dawn
and she’s kneading dough, a rye bread
she gently places in a red ceramic loaf pan.
Demeter, of flesh except for her marble eyes,
blank and smooth. She wears a blue floral house dress
pinched neat at the waist, and a thick braid falls
to the middle of her back. I ask if she’ll have me
in the kitchen, to watch her work some more.
A warning wrapped in her silent nod,
there’s a cost to learning
how to conjure life from dust.