Sourdough Starts Suspended
A poem about making sourdough and the peace that comes from exhaustion
The bubbles peek up at me
Part rye
Part bread flour
Yeasty
touch of sour
C o m f o r t
I breathe in
As my hands pour flour into a bright white
Bowl
Measure the off white, brown speckled
Sticky
Gooey
Gold
Jumping ahead
An itch to knead the gluten
Quick cups of water, anxious excitement
Two mins is the challenge
I ache
for sore arms
pull, fold
fold deep
fingers holes not puncturing
even it out, switch hands
until
exertion keeps me still
one more minute, my brain tsks
pull, fold
s t r e t c h falling
into an almost donut
too tired to go on
savoring this suspension
to stay right
here
heavily breathing
About the Creator
Michele Nampalli
This space is breath for my sensitivity. The poems come fully formed. I've known for quite some time now that my art is about receiving more than creation...its the most natural way I know to process my inner world. It started when I was 7.
Keep reading
More stories from Michele Nampalli and writers in Poets and other communities.
Our Song
Evening has given way to night. Gently, I settle next to you on the comfortable, old love seat and reach for your hand. You snatch it away, again. It cuts me to the quick, but I hide the pain, understanding that the reaction is but part of your demented state. Since the accident, your presence here in our cozy home has been clouded by a haze I can't see. Nevertheless, I feel the frigidity of your expressions and it serves as an excruciating reminder of the immeasurable distance between us.
By Dana Crandell3 days ago in Fiction
Comments (2)
A labor of love with an ending you can eat! Nice poem!
I feel your pain. I have made bread before, and it is no easy feat. Kneading itself can war you out. But from your photo it seems you were right on successful. Nice poem, for success. Well Done!!