feeding a child

making bread as ritual
—kneading, plying
itself a connection
with a thousand generations
of women
on their knees, pounding
fists in unclean bowls

fleshing out grey dough, oxygenating
latent life, swelling, rising
the sacrament
yeast/bread/yeast/ wine
skin-surface-bloom
sugar and spice
all things...
to all

always
cradled in the left arm
—not for the heartbeat,
for dexterity, ministration

his eyes as he drinks

the eyes
of vervet monkeys
his clutching fingers
feeling for lanugo still,
fur (to hang in)
a flickering, a place

beneath gender
waking slow
leavening, fervent

bright as sugared yeast

.
.
.