dad would make

sourdough bread

twice a week

and I’d always beg

for the hardened ends

crispy, still steaming warm

melting anything spread

on top, and I’d always

eat it plain to savor

the cloud of taste left

by the crust

nowadays dad does

not bake anymore but he

still forms atmosphere

in the house by placing the needle

on every record he

decides to play on the

vintage record player once belonging

to my grandmother

whenever the beat

gets too intense I’ll see his eyes

turn periwinkle to forget-me-not

face turn

sunflower to daisy

hands turn

lily to geranium

dad becomes common

in grief, another broken man

walking to a grave of a person

who would not have let him cry

dad knows how to make good sourdough

keep a batch of it behind

to put into the next attempt at bread

and to save spoonfuls of the next dough, also

that is how he rembers grandma

throws a spoonful of grief

into every day like it’ll make it more digestible

like he’ll be able to bake

bread from it for a long time

if only he can make it last.