The Measure Of Salt

Originally published in Flash Issue 43 (2026)

There is a baker,
hands as big as Spain.
His yeast like goldleaf.
Every loaf a miracle,
a bloom from cringing
dirt.

Poppies, heads
turned up to his sky,
reach through.
Beg a crumb.
A crust,
burnt,
for each.

He turns dough lighter than
breath
into itself.
His wife sits on his shoulder,
shining in marble,
screaming softly
just how much
salt and honey
to turn loaves
golden.
Below,
his star-hot caldera,
mawed.