By Pamela Wax
…at the still point, there the dance is.
— T.S. Eliot
There you are, baking bread
before sunrise, kneading
its knots and sinews like a masseuse.
You divine the dough’s perfect balance
between a big-belly Buddha
and a contortionist, nudging it to stretch
and elasticize, while willing it to find
its enlightened self at rest, brooding
its next incarnation, as light slyly crawls,
then leaps across the room
like Degas’ dancer from her pose.
Category: Featured, Poetry