The Bread Knows

The bread knows
whose hands are those
mixing, kneading, shaping
its white, pillowy, delicate dough.
It knows
that I am one who prefers
a crusty, rough and rustic loaf,
and even though
I follow the instructions to a T
and weigh and measure carefully,
the bread knows,
and from its place of soft repose,
gently asks,
Who’s that now?
Whose heart is far away?
Don’t expect me to come and play
or yield to your callous heavy hand.
I am not some one-night stand
you can caress, all the while,
texting friends throughout the land.
I won’t go easily
into rolls or loaves or buns.
I won’t relax into it
or rise as high
or smoothly slip
out from my pan.
The bread knows
as it slowly grows,
I’m just not that into it.

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