Burn It All Down

The cobweb-fine curtains blow in the wind, a storm gathers, the men work in the fields, the cat spits out its milk, and I knead, knead, knead the dough on the board, eight loaves already made, another proving, but still I knead, knead, knead the dough, my hair, tied up, safe, sanitary, tries to break free, the wildness in me forcing it out of ribbons and clasps and grips and I grip, grip, grip to this life, to this kitchen, to this dough because if I let go, let it all go, let out these curls and cries, what then, what then, what then for the men who work in the fields, who work for me and all the other coiled women and ungrateful cats, so I knead, knead, knead the dough and once, when I first saw you, it felt like that half second before I save myself from falling, like a thousand tiny springs had loosened from my tight gut and risen up through my chest and out of my head, escaping my curls, and now I need, need, need, you are working in the fields when I need you, and I could knead your skin and bruise it like the berries for tomorrow’s pie, because there must always be pie and I’ll scrub, scrub, scrub this place clean when the kneading and rolling and holding in and the needing and falling and failing are all forgotten and now, when I look out to watch you work, your muscles strained, your head bowed, your shirt soaked with sweat, I wipe my own brow and smile at a tree alight in the distance, burning it all down, its cleansing fire setting it free.