Crumbs

As if cracking open the front door 
on a sweltering 
inland mid-Atlantic August day 
— or un-lidding a boiling pot of pasta water —
each craggy breath I draw 
punctuates in streams 
of unwelcome warmth 
that coat my face, 
swarm my eyes 
with thick, moist air.

My field of vision 
is as short as my blown fuse;
my view encompasses 
all there is to see 
within a centimeter 
of my snot-soggied nose.

My inhibited sight 
comes from dry retinas:
osmosis does its thing 
as my orbits attempt to equilibrate 
with the surrounding environs

Which in this case, 
is my face
against Afghan Kazak rug.

In proximity to wool, 
my eyes dessicate
while the rest of me 
steams.

"Babe, they're fine, really," 
He calls out from the kitchen.
I hear the blade of a long chef's knife
— maybe the Santoku? —
brush against rough surfaces

He is scraping off once seeds,
now ash,
from the epidermis
of each of my forgotten bagels
and with each screech 
of metal against bread-turned-carbon
I feel my soul sink deeper into wool strands 
which separate my face from wood floor.

His confident footsteps 
creak through the kitchen
towards the galley opening to dining room.

He pauses, 
standing over the dining table, 
searching for me. 

He spies my curls splayed on the rug, 
one natural fiber strewn atop another,
my skull downward, my body lodged 
under the dining table, 
my limp limbs 
threaded through chair legs
as I lie in a prison, 
in a shame cave 
of my own making.

The room silences
then he draws a sudden breath.
"Babe....are you....
"hiding---
"...lying on the floor??"

He asks to the room, halting at the end,
tinged with the apprehension heard
in those who ask the wrong thing 
and then hear it in their own voice too late, 
a slasher victim who shuts the car door 
and then looks in the rear view mirror 
to see the glint of an intruder's knife.

"I FAILED!!!!!!!!!!!" 
I scream, rationally.
"THEY ARE RUINED!"
"THIRTEEN HOURS IN THE KITCHEN
"AND FOR WHAT???????"
"DON'T TOUCH ME! 
"DON'T TALK TO ME! 
"I WILL NEVER GET OVER THIS!"

"They look...fine..." 
He asserts, unwisely.

With my remaining strength
and dredged dignity
I lift my face from my woven pillow
wipe the lanolin-saturated crumbs 
from dinners past 
off from my cheeks.

"I AM DEVASTATED!" I articulate. 
"I AM HEART BROKEN!" 
"I HAVE NEVER FELT SO LOW!"

[I can hear his thoughts:
"But you once endured
a multi-year divorce...]
[[This time he edits his words, 
which stay in his cranium, 
if not off my radar]]

"Babe, come'mon. 
"Give me your hand. 
"Get up."
He commands.

My eyebrows knit together
in tight formation,
mirroring the hand-knotted patterns
now deeply imprinted 
on my forehead.

"RUINED!" I reprise,
while sending up 
a limp arm from under table lip
for him to grasp.

"Let's go taste one," 
He cheers, 
attempting to keep momentum.

I rub more floor-food fragments 
from my knee caps
from my thighs
from my forearms
from my nose.

With little mirth, I follow him 
tracing his steps to the stovetop.

I am reunited 
with the burnished bagels
that will haunt my dreams 
for the foreseeable future,
though now their surfaces matte, 
dulled from broken seeds
debrided from their Pompeiian exteriors
by blunt force of a chef's blade.

I feel salty waves well in my eyes
I might lose it again.
He senses my shoulders quiver
and offsets me with his 
unwavering belief that all will be "fine."


"Let's try one," 
He declares. 
Stating, 
not asking.

He pries an umber ring 
off the rimmed bake sheet.

He selects a serrated bread knife
off magnet strip above the counter.

I watch him saw through burnt bagel
my eyes loose, unfocused.

I hold my breath.

I observe as dark particles
sprinkle down, loudly, 
crackling against maple cutting board.

After a long while, 
the teeth bite through charred flesh
and expose a bouncy, bubbled inner.

My eyes sharpen, 
I take a tentative sniff.

"It smells like bagel," 
I say, my face numb, 
my words simple.

He rips off a length 
from the top round
pops it in his mouth, 
full commitment.

"It's good!" 
He confirms.
And I don't sense a lie.

Perhaps my bake is salvageable.

He feeds me a smaller piece, 
holding it at my lips, 
waiting patiently for me 
to accept his offering.

I chew through charcoal crust 
and my teeth meet creamy, 
fully cooked interior.

As the indents from rug debris 
slowly fade from my skin, 
I chew on the bagel
and on my melodrama.

I do like a man
who can bring order
to the chaos 
I cast.

May he linger longer 
than my tantrums
and may he always 
find something to savor
past my incerated crust
and jagged crumbs.