I kill the yeast. Everything is
hot water these days, so I’m
inclined to slide the
faucet’s handle
closer to red until my
palm is piping under the fall—
a few tablespoons into the
mixing bowl where
iotas of unbirthed dots
await awakening, I
toss in the sugar, then use
my fingers to stir the
torpid bundles from
drowsy stagnation
into the action of
eating and farting and eating
and farting—their calling to
enliven my dough—
but I don’t know until after
two full days of
fermentation in the fridge
that they never ate—
static and scalded
from the hot
drop and splash of
end on their only
moment out of the packet—
they were waiting in the
red womb-bowl to arrive—now
deprived of the
short chance to live.