Eilean Ni Chuilleanáin
The tale of me
The child's teeth click against the marble.
Her ear is crushed cold against the slab,
The dredged flour almost brushed by her hair
She traces with her eye her mother's hand.
The hand squashes flour and eggs to hide the yeast
And again it folds and wraps away
The breathing, slackening, raw loaf
That tried to grow and was twisted and turned back -