SALT

 

For love of my mother, her step-grandmother Jenny

Shook herself into something like she'd been

And made a last and very beautiful loaf of bread

To celebrate my mother's firstborn, my brother.

No one could figure out how this long loaf

Had fit in Jenny's small oven nor how

Such swollen, stiff fingers had braided the dough

Into a masterpiece of the baker's art. Age, though,

Spitefully tripped Jenny up. Baking is a dance.

But when the music said "reach for the salt

And throw in just enough of it" her mind wandered.

There was no salt in the bread at all. It was beautiful. 

It was inedible. Had their just been some salt

My brother's life, I think, might have been different.