Camilla Taylor

My grandma made bread each morning.

She sat backwards on a barstool 

kneading the bowl of dough 

that rested in between her legs 

and the firm back of the chair.

Her fists moved in rhythmic waves

as the dough followed the orders 

of each certain and smooth knuckle.

I wish the whole world fit into that bowl,

so her fists could knead out the tension

of our tightly packed beliefs 

and wound up minds 

and tied up bodies

to tell us about transformation,

how bringing ourselves to softness

is only what will allow us to rise.