Sara Watson
The Baker

I work for the baker
The big, hefty baker
Who mumbles in Greek
And makes love to semolina.
So I asked him for you
If he'd make anything
Out of pomegranates
Because
You always wrote about them
And they would be
The fruit to eat
If we could eat fruit
All day.
He grumbled
Like a frustrated artist
"Can't cook with pomegranates"
And rushed me out to the kitchen
To "Go clean something"
So I washed his knives
And rolling pins and pastry bags
And I stole them
Along with flour and eggs
And I bought myself
Some pomegranates
I mixed them with honey, mace and cloves
Baked at three-hundred fifty degrees
A stench filled the air
As I opened the oven
And the crust
So carefully latticed
Well, it crumbled
Like the eloquent grumbles
Of the big Greek baker
The tart little orbs
Disintegrated and gurgled
In a fruitless mumble
"Never again. Don't try this ever again."

<< Back to Issue 0, 1998