curling up inside a loaf of bread,
fresh from the oven—
that’s what love is, he said.
or at least, I imagine,
what he wanted it to be.
he had been the fat kid, he said,
stabbed with tongues as sharp
as the pencils he gripped
to scratch the pain into his sketchbooks.
maybe he didn’t know yet that love is more
than something you can hide in, that
it’s something you can chew,
something that can go down, still warm,
into your belly, and make you strong.
that later on, you can make more of it,
bake it with flour and sweat,
and share it.