Grace Baking

by Ronda Broatch

                                Yesterday

Jesus was a woman,

    her disheveled hair falling

from a hairnet onto square shoulders.

She bagged loaves in pairs:

    potato rosemary, pugliese, garlic—soft

whole cloves imbedded in a porous

          body of wheat.

Near the fish counter and crates of wine

we spoke of children, of school starting.

            God’ll bless you, she said,

wiping floured hands on a floral apron,

    and I agreed Amen.

We sampled bread, skin still crackling,

warm, as she pressed bags of fresh-

baked rolls against her breasts.

            It’s the music that gets

            the menfolk to church, she stated,

not missing a beat, slipping baguettes

into sacks marked Grace Baking on the outside.

            Grace is the name of our church,

I pointed out, and she smiled at me.

            Have some more bread, she said.

Amen.