Yeast

By Jessica Draper

Ma will never eat

but she will never leave the kitchen.

Fingers sticky and yeasty,

flour up her arms

elbow-deep in dough.

I sleep at the table

waiting for the 

fresh bread,

chewing on the empty air.

Ma, will you bake it this time?

But Ma only shakes her head.

I salivate over the wet dough.

The way she presses her thumbs,

adds olive oil,

rosemary,

sunflower seeds –

Ma collects dough

like your Ma collects

baby shoes.

She squashes it into tin cans,

shelves it,

closes the cupboard door.

It is rising and sinking,

over and over.

I can smell it from the table.

I am hungry.