The Sound of Bread
Who knew kneading dough at 2:00 am
for morning’s bread
was an act of vibration, fast and small
and loud enough to be heard over time?
It’s just you and your cigarette at work,
now and then ashes falling in soft dynamic.
I know you did not mean for this dark dust
to sink displaced, lost, gray,
to disconnect you from the rhythm,
from your hands repeatedly pressing and shaping,
finding the round form, hiding burnt residue.
Chords need their moments of tension, you say,
singing along with Felipe Rodríguez,
his begging lilt for otra copa de champán.
And like all songs, this one ends.
Now you we tell with mice
running from under those flaming ovens,
scuffling over crusts of bread by your feet.
There is harmony here,
but you dare not give in to this definite theme:
it sounds like the pocket change
you forgot to leave on the kitchen counter
before you escaped.
The screech of coins could not be heard in San Juan,
so you took off, leaving nothing,
not even the most precious sound:
the human voice.
