the tortured table

some time ago in a land far from my origins

at the table with friends newer than the friends

I’d left behind save for the romance,

set with pasta, cheeses, red wine and bagged pane

from the bakery aisle not specialized in the baking of bread,

at least not like the bakeries I left behind save for the romance.

the bread on this table was pliable, from the crust inward, and soft

like a pillow, like the way the grocer thought it should be.

I’m asked to slice the pane, an honor when visiting someone’s house.

the pane was un-bagged and sitting on a cutting board made of

something other than wood, a sort of substance that could be

referred to as “anything”.

I grabbed the cool pane with my right hand, turned it on its side,

squeezed it a little, and moved the blade of the knife toward it.

it wasn’t a serrated blade. it was dull, like a comic m.c. introducing

the long awaited stripper known for her inventive routines. 

I should’ve protested. I should’ve admonish the table for being

a place where bread was treated like a clump of clay barely

good enough to produce a bad sculpture.

but I smiled politely asking for a serrated knife.

I should’ve tossed the loaf across the room.

I should’ve stabbed the cheese in the head.

I wanted to tell the gathered about Marzilli’s Bakery,

and Marcucci’s Bakery, and the pane laid upon the table

of my youth, but no. I sliced the loaf. It was an honor, you see.