Eight fresh loaves of bread sit sweating

in individual plastic bags.

arrayed across the counter before me.

 

Their scent carries memories

of enamel table tops

and worn lineoleum floors. 

 

These loves contain within

the kneads and baked folds of dough.

like folds in a brain,

the imprints of my fingers

from a thousand different directions, deflections.

 

The loaves are made with whole wheat flour,

oatmeal, honey, and molasses, 

And the endless chemical responses that drive

the yeast through the rise

the muscles through the fingers

the honey across the tongue

the memory through the mind.