|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Love You Like Bread For Chanel Dubofsky
Clouds shroud the city like newspaper over an old man’s sleeping face. The wind
teethes on our ears, drizzle needles our cheeks. A gnarly loaf of challah
steams from a brown paper bag nestled in my coat. The shuk is a zoo on Fridays,
you say, everybody shouting and pushing. You relive Jerusalem, roam Emek Refaim
in your head, the coffee from its cafés fresh on your taste buds, you fall
in love again and again. I rip off an end. The sesame seeds are Braille for the tongue,
Naming each little explosion in the mouth: sourdough, brown sugar, pinch of rosemary.
We should go to Israel, you say. My silence gives the same answer it gave in the past.
Minor thirds of disappointment wheeze from your chest and I’m sorry
I’m not who you sometimes wish. The challah’s crust—a soft crunch,
like walking on frosted grass, then a featherbed for the teeth. I’ll visit you
in New York, I say. Your arm tightens around mine, lips curl into an okay.
We’ve survived the pastries, the lard and artificial flavoring of relationships.
We work with simple ingredients. Want more? I say. Your hand reaches in,
and I grip the bag so you can wrestle off a bigger piece.
|
