Dora likes to watch the hands of women
work kitchen tools
as they prepare food for supper.

She tells herself
which illness each foodstuff cures
as it is added to the pot.

One woman spreads butter
on bread slices—
thin veils of yellow over deep tan.

Another woman mixes sugar, butter and vanilla
into milk to make icing for a cake
cooling on a wire rack.

All of this for the boy whose vulgar mouth
earned him a face-slap yesterday.
But he turns twelve today.

copyright © 2023 Kenneth P. Gurney


We made bread.
While it baked we imagined it in our mouths.

Once it was done baking,
we tasted our bread fresh from the oven.

We compared our imagined tastes
to the real taste upon our tongues.

The bread in your imagination tasted like the golden ratio,
thus a honey-butter smear did not compare.

The bread in my imagination sought out fishes
and a purer hand than mine to feed a multitude.

copyright © 2020 Kenneth P. Gurney