“Bread” by Edward Bartók-Baratta

Edward Bartók-Baratta


Not so much texture
as the life deep within,
the density when you heft

that silent, brown loaf
into your gloved palm, weigh it out
there, appreciate this

still, warm mystery: the call
of yeast to flour
in a damp, wooden tray, to

repopulate itself, a self-contained
antithesis to war; then

the kneading, the pulse and the flow
of what you hold so near
to yourself, of what

you do not know, the energy worked
into the resilient dough. You hum
while young animals work

below the window, and you wipe out
a wooden bowl, and prepare to partake
of the meal that is built

in the delicate balance between
your love and your fear.

from Rattle #16, Winter 2001


Edward Bartók-Baratta: “Poetry is a musical, artistic, verbal response, rather than bringing more violence into the world.”

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