Lament of the 100% Wholemeal
My metal prison’s blade twists.
It whirrs and hurls me, sticks in my bulk.
Time up, I’m released: dough into doorstop,
breeze block bread. A loaf without heft,
concrete crust. Is my yeast too old?
Is my flour deficient? I’m sunken, deflated.
I want rebirth as focaccia, sourdough,
to feel warm hands kneading me.
I long to be left to prove, to rise,
then glazed with egg and baked hot.
I’d double in size, smell enticing
when I was ready for slicing, sharing.
Now I’m thrown with other debris
into the compost or crumbled for birds
to peck at my skin, pierce my core.
It’s cold on the table under the stars.