Bread Poem by Nassy Fesharaki

Bread

Moved the cells in brain
-with great warm smells
-in the air, caressing nostril
-thanks to my Mom's baking.

I brought flour
-from the Hassan's Mill.

Always joked and asked me:
- "Do you want some rat's milk? "

Rats had home, ran around
-inside his wheat-filled mill
-which ran with the water
-and he seemed to be guest.

He always wore smile
-was great, hardworking
-with supreme memory
-never mixed the bags of
-this with that or reverse.

To me, now, looking back
-he was like Geppetto
-in workshop to make the
-Pinocchio…

I had walked with daddy
-when plowed, harvesting
-the golden useful wheat.

I helped them as a child
-to store when brought
-to silo in rooms' walls.

Learned hiding when looted
-by gunmen from far
-who came in harvest times
-took fruits, animals…
-and gold and valuables
-then released men, women.

The looters' behaviours
-forced people to build, make
-the towers and castles
-to watch, shoot, and defend.

They also learned trick;
-made the walls very thick
-with some parts like bellies,
-hollow and empty, for hiding
-the harvest, valuables…

Each silo had a mouth
-which was filled, flattened
-to become the surface
-for oil-lamp and dishes
-seeming as simple shelf…

At bottom the hole was
-sealed, closed, camouflaged
-to look like nothing but
-a natural part of wall…

Lower hole was opened if needed
-like Jerry coming out of its den.

When brought from mill
-Mother took and turned it
-to dough, which she made it
-into balls, rested it
-in mass of flour, well covered.

At same time she readied
-the oven; called: "Tanoor."
-that was made with clay
-always dug in kitchen.

It had a long tunnel to side of veranda
-for the air to come and circulate
-to allow the wood burn with the sticks
-and bushes that varied
-in colour and smell when burning.
-She also kept working and kneading.

She cut dough to pieces and made balls,
-then took them for rubbing till became
-flattened in right size…

Some of what she had done
-were secret to our eye
-she kept us out of touch
-but smell was around, we tasted.

Now I know, though too late
-she added oil, sugar, cinnamon
-or only sheep-goat-milk or butter.

Then the thin dough, flavoured,
-was set on cotton-pad; pillow-sized.

Then she bent, bravely, in fire
-sticking the round and flattened-
-dough on the red and burning clay.

She went on with her work and oven;
-baked bread using heat, and flame.

As it is with fruits, children
-to leave home, go own way…
-slowly parted dough, as baked.

Too smart, and ready, was mother.
-she had Sikh, (metal tool, long and thin)
-which she used to grab the bread…
-and bring to surface (like a fish inside net.)

And fresh was bread,
And tasty was bread,
And great it smelled…

Though I have travelled
-far too much and in ways
-over seas, roads, and air,
-have never been able
-to have the same bread
-same taste and same smell.