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Poetry

Bread, 1933

Michael Lauchlan

Widowed with eight kids, how young
you were, in a cold flat in a strange town.
On the porch, your youngest wept
until you could ladle some vague stew
for dinner. When a strange silent man
saw him and dropped off a bag
of flour, you scrounged yeast and salt,
followed like a recipe an old image—
your mother baking in a farm kitchen
in Manitoba. White motes hung
in the air as you mixed and laughed,
kids swirling, the oven belting its heat
as the leavened loaves rose, then
baked brown, and, for once, fed all.

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