Sourdough French Bread

A poem by Madhuri

When I flew back to India
I took only a shoulder-bag,
and a loaf of sourdough French bread
for my sister.
I thought I’d stay a month
but it was seven years…

It was forever, it was eternity,
it hopped continents, it was,
later, even cowboys and
pyramids and celebrations
on stilts, white robes
and more forevers…

It was soul’s daybreak –

Now I’m in San Francisco
gazing at sourdough bread
on my niece’s kitchen counter.
I would not eat it
these days,
but it doesn’t matter –
I’m happy to see it,
and the hills packed
with small houses,
and the far sea –

Whatever was meaningless then
in 1974
has healed itself –
all the houses, and the family,
patched over with
blissful connective tissues –
The sun is benign and radiant,
the dishwasher
sounds like a contented stomach,
the sound of someone
talking on Zoom in the next room
lifts my heart –
Everything has been spread
with a nice butter,
soft and half a-glow
like on new bread –

Each family member –
there are many –
improved beyond all reckoning –
even the ones
who weren’t born yet,
way back then –

Sourdough bread…
warm wand, baby-sized –
picked up and hefted,
gazed at with approval,
put down again –

San Francisco, September ‘26