All night our mother formed him
from memory. She kneaded the dough
into the body that we knew.
His leg: a sleek, clubbed baguette.
His belly: a hungry, swollen boule.
With a cup of black caraway
she pocked the skin. Twirled pretzels
would let him hear. To see, she gave
him fat rye eyes basted in egg.
His mouth she left tongue-empty.
In the dark, the oven lifted him,
chest filling with his sour breath.
We woke to find our father spread
on the kitchen table—a jam jar
and stick of cold butter beside
the dun brioche that sank in his lap.
We sat, and mother told us, “Eat.”
We held his grissini fingers
in shaking hands. We said kaddish.
He was mute. We broke his flesh.