Mothers Milk and Our Daily Bread

Our Daily Bread Flour, yeast, and milk, a bit of butter too, and giving it some time to rise, into a loaf, it grew.. From this mass of sticky flour will come warm, pillow soft bread. My body continues its weary work, as thoughts float through my head. Looking out my window, I see the vast and clear blue skies, my heart fills up with longing… like dough, perhaps I'll rise. My arms will grow soft feathers, my bones all hollow out… giving me just what I'll need to fly and float about. Freedom from the daily drudge, from burdens and all my cares… I'll flap my newly made wings and fly away from there. Out of this very window, into bright skies I see… over the distant mountain tops to unknown mountain peaks. Perhaps a place where I could find A peaceful people who… give higher value to a woman's mind, and all that women do. We sisters of the uterus We captives of the Moon We who bleed to create life Soldiers in stiletto shoes… ...carry more than our fair share of heavy burdens and the blame… our bodies are seductive and so, seem steeped in shame. These anchors bound to my arms These binding ties, severed, when bone turns to hollow straw and skin sprouts supple feathers... ...then I'll rise like this yeasty dough and bake in the oven of the sun. I hear the ding of alarm bells ring telling me my bread is done.