This Wanted to Be an Ode to Pain au Levain

Sourdough crumbles under my hands, flour thick on the counter, white haze same as my father used to breathe in. The skin splits where I score it, steam unfurling from the center like something trying to leave. I eat the heel first, next its soft middle, then the quiet between bites, imagining what’s left of his lungs. He was convinced his anger would bully up, save him. He hated me, and now it’s just me communing with wild yeast. Hallelujah.