a bed of fresh-washed sheets
and smells of fresh baked bread
waft yellow down my hall
into my twitching nose.I find more nakedness in those comforts
than in the brothels of the Romans.
They strip away my cloaks of fear,
they dissolve my masks so carefully applied
and let my face lay fallow and unharrowed
while I am carried off across the gulfs of time…

Another me, both proud and vulnerable
and peeking thru my fingers at my stomach
and those fine glistening hairs white
in the morning sun beams refracted
thru the window pane
while birds sing lazy and slow trilling
on the outside.My bedside table has you there
in memento and framed, still
but straining at the edges
with that unrestrained smile.

My thighs are creamy white
like fresh bread broken
and awaiting new churned butter
still wet with milk and clotted cream.

That red affection and connection
and there like butter yeasty bread
and crusty breakfast wait
with a warm and singular
latte on my swelling hips.I let go in strength, and feel
weak and without grip
and without need to grip
because my core is not containable
or needing a container
because it is me, and home…
every curve and crevice,
every speck and scar.

The tinkling jangle of
forks and dishwasher racks
jettisons that lovely past
and I am here again
in that bed of sheets
and baking bread
and serrated knife
that goes right thru that loaf
like it’s butter beneath
burnished bronze edges
and steady fingers.

Those scents will not flash forward,
but I dream of a day
that I might be unmade,
fresh sheets shown beneath,
yeasty bread laid bare
beneath a faithful blade.