“Still too hot to cut”
Rye bread might mangle or mash
in the clacks and clatters of mechanical teeth,
Yet my mother would insist.
And the one server would comply
and other would not.
And the one that would not
did not because she would rather
disorganize our Sunday morning
than risk raking rye to ruin.
But, the one that would
did so only after chatter
about friends, family and
weather, wafers or cookies or whatever
until the cool steel jaws
could draw their blades through curst
and dough and caraway seeds
past curst once again unto silence.
And I got to eat the hot heal
and hold the warm waxed bag
filled with bread and a love like aroma
on the walk home wondering if
“the one that would not”
ever ate
hot rye bread?”
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