It feels right that today

My hands should sink into dough,

Like God’s great hands into clay,

That today I should be as dusty as a miller

And the air be redolent with anise.

One loaf is my lost son and one loaf is me,

And my husband will place us on a board

And cover us with cloth,

He will balance us on his head.

Around us the Atlas Mountains speak Tuareg:

“Yes, today I am clad in snow,

But soon, soon I will swell your streams

That you may plant wheat.”

The cobbles are uneven in the narrow alley,

But we are in good hands.

And the hands say in Tuareg:

“Now you wobble and are moist,

But when I fetch you in an hour

You will be our family’s strength.

Feel the oven’s heat,

Slide from the peel.”

The husband from far away

Reaches deep into Morocco

And his hands thank the baker.

At home on the plank table

He blesses the loaves

And they become mother and son,

Sweet as anise.

Behold our strange Eucharist!

April 24^th, 2008