Loaf

with a            caving of crust
not mine to slice

            nor warm.

we met over rye—coarse, overproofed,
          split at the seams
like your first winter coat in Brussels.
the one with the burnt button
and the inside pocket where you hid your resignation letter.

I watched you tear the end off a baguette
like it had betrayed you
and still deserved forgiveness.

this is how we begin:
hands floured, knees bent,
stale crumbs caught in the pages of language books
we never quite returned.

a moral softness, buttered
          to the rim.
you said I kneaded like someone trying to forget.
I said you rose like you knew who you were.
the yeast disagreed.

(With)out translation,
we made metaphors of crust.
I told you everything I knew about holes—
in dough, in time, in family.
you gave me your grandmother’s recipe
          and your silence.

there were cafes with puppets hanging like hostages,
bread baskets that arrived with four languages
and left in none.
you laughed like wine forgotten in a radiator
and let me mop your mouth with the heel of a loaf.

to break bread is to say
I will not harm you
even if I could.
to eat it together is to lie
very sweetly
and mean it.

still, I confess:
I stole your last sourdough.
it sat in my freezer for weeks
moaning softly through the plastic,
reminding me of all the heat
we never said aloud.

bread becomes memory too easily.
a thing you shared
before knowing how much it would cost
to remember.

(With)in me, your crust lives.
I chew it every Sunday.
I forget the shape
and remember the steam.

Maya is a 19-year-old writer from Bombay, currently obsessed with bread, puppets, and the emotional residue of shared meals. She has been published in the New York Times, Vellichor Literary and several other online zines. She writes about tenderness, absurdity, and the strange rituals of being alive.