The bereaved must sing to the passed,
must wail upon the deaf skies our frailty.

Given just moments upon this crust,
like toothsome bread to savor until swallowed,
we must praise the baker his craft.

There is not a noise we make
more truthful than the chewing,
the soft crumb yielding to the jaw.

Put an ear to the loaf to hear
the children's song of the womb
in faint wisps of steam and contraction.

Yes, the bereaved must sing,
must wail upon the crust and the crumb,
must howl upon each sawn slice,
must sob, perhaps stoic and silent,
upon the torn, chewed and swallowed frailty.