The Bread We Ate

The bread we ate
did not have a name.
Neither did the wheat
we took to the mill,
the flour the fornara
made into dough
at the community oven.
She used a starter
from an earlier batch,
an inheritance
received and passed on
like a blessing.
Mothers
hugged the round loaves
to their breasts
and cut towards them.
We kissed it
to show respect,
as we kissed
our parents' hands
in the morning, our fingers
when crossing ourselves.

Rina FERRARELLI