Sunday, August 28, 2011
Bread heels are the bastard children
of the loaf: not given a fair shake
from doughy birth, baked
to bear the brunt for their
brother and sister slices
who are more revered,
slathered with jelly
or matched up for deli sandwiches,
like teens at a hoedown.
No, the heels are hardened,
and they must be, they are but crusty bookends,
no feeling of destiny or divine favor,
but as the loaf dwindles, finally
the counterparts meet, heel to heel, and the old wounds
begin at last to heal.
they let down their crusts and embrace
with the inner softness that secretly longs
to be eaten, to be kissed and savored, and on occasion,
they‘re stowed in the freezer, frozen
as prehistoric lovers in an avalanche until
a grander fate is revealed:
[meatballs] [bread pudding] [croutons] [love] [purpose].