For centuries, wheat wasn’t suspicious, a criminal
to be watched from the corner of your eye
in case it reached for the gun.
It was goddess-touched, gold-scented,
a wild grass descended from neolithic plateaus,
where horses, who never knew what it was
to be broken, followed the sun.
Today, I’m eating toast for breakfast, chewing softly,
urging my body not to be afraid,
wishing I hadn’t wasted years measuring goodness
by everything I denied myself,
my hungers collected and hung around my neck
like bone charms to keep evil away.
I wish I had spent more time with dough in my
fingernails, and flour in my hair.
I wish every gluten-free, sugar-free, dairy-free, vegan
protein bar had been a cookie,
and that I hadn’t made myself sick with worry,
when no food could ever be dirty.
I wish I’d remembered the taste of mom’s brownies,
and how when I got to lick the chocolate spoon,
nothing hurt.
