This is a stanza from an assortment of stuff I’m pulling together. When I was writing the haphazard stanzas, I didn’t know that they belonged together. The title of the final poem might be “posture”.
a spatula folds the dough
scrapes the sides of the bowl
pats the dough into my brain creases
where it bakes and
reinforces beliefs kneaded into me
© 12 July 2020
Cindy B. Stevens
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