Bread Day

In this kitchen,
my feet feel
terracotta tiles

warmed by last
night’s summer thick
sweaty satin heat.

Momma’s back is
unbreakable. I step
on cracks

of sun sifting
down emerald
sea glass waves

rippling slow tides
through the thin
window panes

above the tin
sink. Light filters
dust when I

lower my black
lashes, I see
bits collect on the tips

I want to catch
Every sunned fleck

I’d hide them—
Momma doesn’t much
like dust

makes her callous cream
fingertips ash grey with grit
when stroked slow

along the chilled
oven door handle’s
quiet worn edge.

In this kitchen,
It is Saturday—
Bread day; half

the dust is
flour, and I
draw her pictures

in the damp
green sunned thickness
of the air.