The feeling presses against the walls of my stomach.
Its hands are on the inside of my chest
like a gulp of something hot.
Garish distraction might chase it away,
but I nurture it like the rising yeast on the counter,
watch the bread overflow and
suffocate its container in a sticky embrace.

I want to feel the heartbeat of the dough before it dies,
I want to bury my fingers in the life of the bread.
Everything we eat is dead, no matter how alive the taste
or close to its wide-eyed birth we are,
so I want to feel the life as it grows, browns.
I want to see its descent into the inanimate,
until its carcass lies stiff on my plate,
taking moist feelings with it.