The feast of bread and stone

At sunrise the fire is lit

and the kettle hung from its hook to boil

 

The long lazy morning lies ahead

in which we are as new to each other

as an infant and her mirror twin

delighting in every gesture

and each shared smile

wanting nothing more than to know this other one

beyond the silvered surface

 

In this light we cannot yet see

how the fragile clockwork of desire

will be exposed

its mechanism bared and torqued

wound by experts

set to a schedule

clinical and clean

 

Nor how the morning heaves into heavy afternoon

warm light along a trail of bread and stones

on which we tread and cannot say

which most carefully carried?

stones or bread?

and at journey’s end which consumed?

 

Still, for now, the water boils

and the fire smoulders still beneath the steaming kettle

as warm as blood from a slit wrist

 

From where will the breath come?

In whose lungs made?

From whose lips blown?

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Stories and other writing by Ben Thurley

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