A Worshipful Company of Bakers
Zombified, two white-capped bakers,
my dad and his father, shuffled into our kitchen
for morning coffee after their shift.
Like the ancient Greeks, my mom should give
them a slice of cake for the dog at the river,
or worry that sleep deprivation is
a tempting defense for crime in this state.
That school year, I drew a picture of an Egyptian
discovering leavened bread in 4000 BC.
He left a pot of gruel out for the sun god Ra,
wild airborne yeasts blew in from the Nile,
and the mystery mash started to bubble.
That’s pretty much how I began to rise.
A high school girl surprised a baker’s son
one morning with a howdy and the news:
Hon, we’ve got a little bun in the oven.
The bread of Wonder, of Little Miss Sunbeam,
of Holsum, of Merita, of Bunny,
the Twinkies of Hostess, the Pies of Moon,
the Cakes of Little Debbie, minus the wrappers,
filled my metal lunchbox each school day.
Culled hosts of my fathers.
While Dad tried to sleep, one eye open
like a duck, and dream up a better life,
Mom listened to women tell their hard luck
“Queen for a Day” stories. Her mother
taught her how, against the odds,
to achieve oven spring and a golden brown crust.
Emptying the hot pan, she felt
the vantage loaf of a forgiving heart.
Glory be to a worshipful company of bakers,
she prayed. For they prepare its body carefully,
roll away the pin of stone or wood, keep vigil
outside the tomblike oven throughout the night,
and in the morning give praise for it is risen.
Later on, our hard luck story might’ve
registered high on the applause meter.
Our brown house no longer looked like a house
made of bread. After work, Mom cracked open
a can of biscuits and bought day-old
loaves at the outlet store. She told me that children
who couldn’t be quiet and play in the yard
might be lead out into the woods and lost
like Hansel and Gretel. I learned to drop
the nightmare crumbs of want.
When my own child wakes from a bad dream,
I will tell her a worshipful company of bakers
makes hot cross buns full of grace every night.
I will hope her life rises like a flock of birds
above a harvest field of golden wheat.
my dad and his father, shuffled into our kitchen
for morning coffee after their shift.
Like the ancient Greeks, my mom should give
them a slice of cake for the dog at the river,
or worry that sleep deprivation is
a tempting defense for crime in this state.
That school year, I drew a picture of an Egyptian
discovering leavened bread in 4000 BC.
He left a pot of gruel out for the sun god Ra,
wild airborne yeasts blew in from the Nile,
and the mystery mash started to bubble.
That’s pretty much how I began to rise.
A high school girl surprised a baker’s son
one morning with a howdy and the news:
Hon, we’ve got a little bun in the oven.
The bread of Wonder, of Little Miss Sunbeam,
of Holsum, of Merita, of Bunny,
the Twinkies of Hostess, the Pies of Moon,
the Cakes of Little Debbie, minus the wrappers,
filled my metal lunchbox each school day.
Culled hosts of my fathers.
While Dad tried to sleep, one eye open
like a duck, and dream up a better life,
Mom listened to women tell their hard luck
“Queen for a Day” stories. Her mother
taught her how, against the odds,
to achieve oven spring and a golden brown crust.
Emptying the hot pan, she felt
the vantage loaf of a forgiving heart.
Glory be to a worshipful company of bakers,
she prayed. For they prepare its body carefully,
roll away the pin of stone or wood, keep vigil
outside the tomblike oven throughout the night,
and in the morning give praise for it is risen.
Later on, our hard luck story might’ve
registered high on the applause meter.
Our brown house no longer looked like a house
made of bread. After work, Mom cracked open
a can of biscuits and bought day-old
loaves at the outlet store. She told me that children
who couldn’t be quiet and play in the yard
might be lead out into the woods and lost
like Hansel and Gretel. I learned to drop
the nightmare crumbs of want.
When my own child wakes from a bad dream,
I will tell her a worshipful company of bakers
makes hot cross buns full of grace every night.
I will hope her life rises like a flock of birds
above a harvest field of golden wheat.
posted by John A. Blackard at 9:09 AM
