Force of the Sonogram
Jesus Bread
Migration
Monologue in a Bar
Onychomancy
Perfected
Sleep in Summer
The House With Only The Sound
of A Dog Barking Inside
of A Dog Barking Inside
Understanding Dear Alice’s Dilemma
Jesus Bread
Linda Parsons Marion
One ha' penny, two ha' penny, hot cross buns!
If you have no daughters, give them to your sons!
- English nursery rhyme
Of stubborn stock not easily converted,
my daughter refuses the Easter bun. Licks
the lemony white cross, then hands it over,
burnished in glory. No Jesus bread for me,
she says, as if a bite would singe her tongue,
roof of her mouth, brand her as one who scuttled
the damp Roman catacombs, risking life and limb
to kneel, genuflect to a whispered presence
among the hidden faithful, as if the solid plumpness,
dotted in sweet currants, would stick
dry as the host in her throat.
Pagan Saxons, to honor Ēostre, cut across
the dough—four quarters of moon, four elements
of substance and breath. In Christendom, baked
on Good Friday, a roll hung in kitchens against
fires, plague, shipwrecks, hunger, not moldering
the whole year, it was said, swirled in cardamom,
cinnamon, spices shrouding the crucified body.
Had I led my daughter to the well more often—
the pew, the font, the hymnal—to Mount Olivet
and the multiplied loaves, had I swallowed
my own stiff-necked resistance, she might take
this offering forged of past and present, raise
Sunday’s cup to her lips. She might whisk
this bowl of soft winter wheat into warmed
yeast and sugar, spread farm butter, jam
red as stigmata on the egg-washed crown,
a golden, redeeming alleluia.
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If you have no daughters, give them to your sons!
- English nursery rhyme
Of stubborn stock not easily converted,
my daughter refuses the Easter bun. Licks
the lemony white cross, then hands it over,
burnished in glory. No Jesus bread for me,
she says, as if a bite would singe her tongue,
roof of her mouth, brand her as one who scuttled
the damp Roman catacombs, risking life and limb
to kneel, genuflect to a whispered presence
among the hidden faithful, as if the solid plumpness,
dotted in sweet currants, would stick
dry as the host in her throat.
Pagan Saxons, to honor Ēostre, cut across
the dough—four quarters of moon, four elements
of substance and breath. In Christendom, baked
on Good Friday, a roll hung in kitchens against
fires, plague, shipwrecks, hunger, not moldering
the whole year, it was said, swirled in cardamom,
cinnamon, spices shrouding the crucified body.
Had I led my daughter to the well more often—
the pew, the font, the hymnal—to Mount Olivet
and the multiplied loaves, had I swallowed
my own stiff-necked resistance, she might take
this offering forged of past and present, raise
Sunday’s cup to her lips. She might whisk
this bowl of soft winter wheat into warmed
yeast and sugar, spread farm butter, jam
red as stigmata on the egg-washed crown,
a golden, redeeming alleluia.