Ever-baking, Squishy Brain

Dear little marshmallow mind,

-

I’m so mean to you.

I fistfight the nights of confusion you bring me,

which you don’t mean to bring me,

and I think you’d rather have tea than

make me silent-cry.

-

I used to scream at you when you made me

act nice to people that were rude.

I couldn’t turn off the ever-spraying faucet of love

that tormented me at the end of every relationship.

But I can almost see your point now.

-

I stopped in the bread aisle of the grocery store,

gentle eyes on a smiling old lady.

Her paper hands waggled with excitement,

a conversation brewing about Wonder Bread

and a gentle touch on my forearm.

-

I thank you immensely for knowing what to say,

my hands reaching to vine around hers in a way

that connected us like planets in a system,

breathing our air very close,

and completing a circle I didn’t know existed.

-

I don’t know the lady’s name,

but I could tell you she used to

eat peanut butter sandwiches with her grandpa

on their back deck,

which is a better identifier anyway.

-

I guess, rising dough and ever-learning organ,

if you’ve decided you won’t stop baking the bread

my mouth hands out to strangers

like a friendly little communion,

I won’t stop you.

-

Sincerely,

Your victim and admirer,

The rest of Your Body.