Bread Alone
a poem about wanting more
April is National Poetry Month. For the next several weeks, I’ll be sharing poems each Wednesday here at the Well. This week’s poem is a new one, inspired by a writing group I attended on Sunday. The prompt was to write about wanting more.
The reality of the world right now leaves us wanting more.
Some of what we want is beyond our individual control. It takes time, collective and coordinated effort. It’s risky and costly. And some of what we want is simple and sweet. Available when we reach for it. Trust it. It’s easy to believe wanting more of something, like French toast, is selfish or meaningless when society is collapsing around us. There are voices saying wanting more joy in this season of suffering is selfish, impossible, or naïve. Yet, we need ordinary things, like brunch and laughter and communion with saints and friends, if we are going to survive and be part of the resistance.
What are you wanting more of for yourself? For your community? For all humanity? What keeps you from pursuing it?
Bread Alone ©Rebecca Wilson
I want more bread straight from the oven, too hot to cut biscuits with jam muffins glazed with cream cheese frosting french toast covered in fresh fruit syrup and powdered sugar I want communion with the ancestors summoning the ghost of my grandfather who considered butter a food group spread it on everything even his brownies tell me more, I’d say, about those scones you ate in Dublin, croissants in Paris what you ordered journeying across Japan, New Zealand, Australia which country’s rolls were your favorite my heart hurts imagining a world without travel void of fluffy, sweet samples this seat feel uncomfortable maybe it’s time for a trip before you remind me about money the economy, oil wars and rising gas prices or my credit card limit ICE in the airport renewing my passport the growing fear I have of using public restrooms before you talk about calories, carbs and pre-diabetes or ask how tight my jeans fit let me stop you maybe we cannot live on bread alone but breaking bread together keeps old recipes and memories alive one slice, one sliver you return to me every single time
If anything about this poem stirs curiosity or sparks creativity, drop a ❤️ or leave a comment. If Wednesdays at the Well quench your thirst share our words with a friend.
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