Daily Bread.

Daily Bread

Her brown eyelids flutter,
paper-like, thin-spread
and fragile, translucent—
butterfly wings over
African diamonds
(and where is the glory).

Strength?
Strength is that blue dot in your eye
when you've stared at the sun.

Her boys thin as sapling,
dwarfed, russet, premature
and her heart so thick,
black-blood-red—
but it is diluting, water
in a chalice of red wine.

There is no communion, no daily bread.
(Lord, give us this day…give us this day.)

She closes her eyes,
(they flutter, faster)
a feast, starched and
eternal and fruit-bright,
stretching before her
like a road—it crumbles
into clods of dirt when she steps.


Fingers spread, skin taut
she is Tantalus—
elbows locked,
grabbing with nothing
but heavy air between her
thin fingers, and nothing
but the stale taste (on Earth
as it is in Heaven) of vanity
on her tongue.

She licks her parched lips,
cracked like a screen door
through which she whispers
her dreams—and whimpers,
and screams (Hallowed,
Hallowed be Thy name)
her nightmares.

Thinking that if she could just
turn her tears into water,
if she could only make bread
out of rocks and dust…

A baby clings to her frame
and sucks at air.

Her belly pregnant
with anticipation,
eyes naked of joy.

Wondering how long
she can feed off of visions,
hope and empty promises,
(Thy Kingdom come…)
stale words and faith—
The Kingdom is not here—
without bread.