Sourdough #10

Poetry by Samuel Spencer

Sourdough #10

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I am the dough, flipped, folded,
kneaded, and pinched. I wait for completion
in the furnace of my own design.
My maker watches from above, not one
to commune by himself, but tonight
he does. Tonight, he drinks at the counter.

He loves company more than he loves
loaves. There’s always bread, though,
wine too, and God (the real one) looks down
from the leaven in the sky, watching
his little ceramic offspring, half-baked
breaking bread and drinking wine, the kind
of communion that compels the lonely
to make union with flour and water.