Baking Bread
When the news came,
her wedding band was covered with dough.

While the phone receiver dangled
she greased the pans and rolled crescents.
She imagined
him coming home still
a smile edged his face
The smell of bread filled the house.
His calloused hands
broke a roll.
Thick the butter
thin the elderberry jam,
he tore a piece
dropped it on her tongue.
A kiss melted her cheek.

While the bread blackened in the oven
she could hear her sister
knocking at the door
calling her name
the day he came back no more.
—Cheryl Denise

After Church
I wrote my first poem at sixteen,
for Kendal’s baptisms,
didn’t know what I was doing.
Poetry still feels weird.
I envy Catholic poets,
confession boxes, gold statues,
altar boys, holy water,
stained glass colors of salvation.
All I see is a smooth pine cross
hanging in this jaundiced sanctuary,
where it just seems prudent to believe.
I like to write after everyone’s gone,
with the hum of the janitor vacuuming downstairs.
I long to dance,
to cry, to lose myself,
like a wild Mary Magdalene
trying to spill her perfume.
—Cheryl Denise

Poems published by permission of author and Pandora Press U.S., all rights reserved.