Categories
Poetry

White Bread Mother

My white bread mother is sliced thin.
She sidles from room to room on feet of soft crust.
Sometimes I don’t hear her when she approaches;
I am reading something, I look up and
there she is, staring at me
with her blank preformed face.

My white bread mother is sliced thin.
She sidles from room to room on feet of soft crust.
Sometimes I don’t hear her when she approaches;
I am reading something, I look up and
there she is, staring at me
with her blank preformed face.

I wanted a whole-wheat mother,
mouth-full and nourishing,
who wears bandannas, smells like a bakery.
Or a ciabatta mother drizzled in oil, soaked in herbs,
with a red lipstick mouth like a slice of tomato.
Or a pretzel mother, chewy and salty,
who talks loud and laughs louder.

Even a banana-bread mother,
almost too sweet and rounded on the edges,
making the best of all things overripe and not apologizing.
(Some people like banana bread the best.)

There are days I want to push her in the oven,
toast her to ashes.
I’d pick out crumbs and
scatter them underfoot.
I’d pull off pieces and
feed her to the ducks.

Then I could have a duck mother,
greasy and dripping and savory-sweet,
ready to carry me home over the water.

Originally published in Illumen, Spring 2016.

By Kate Lechler

Kate Lechler is a writer and editor; her fiction has appeared in NonBinary Review and PodCastle. During the day, she teaches British literature at the University of Mississippi in Oxford, MS, where she lives with her husband, a cat, a dog, and seven fish. At night, she writes about genetically-engineered unicorns and dragons.