This title is gratefully borrowed from the last line of “Recipe,” a poem by Barbara Crooker in her collection from Pittsburgh University Press, Some Glad Morning.
On Rye Toast: An Inexplicable Miracle
for fingers starving for more than bread,
for hands longing to offer again
love as food to an old mother
now isolate in the nursing home
where she will die by winter.
Tests and masks and social distance
are not enough to fell the walls
when all you want is once again
to bring her some honey and butter.
Alone you hear the cardinal sing
red and rich and full of summer
because you’ve given him fat seeds
three miles from the nursing home.
And there! The bird you’ve named Lady Jay,
snatching the peanuts you’ve put on a tray,
blue feathers flashing in clear light
as her beak breaks apart the veined pale shells
to feed and feed her fledgling young.