Barbara Daniels Bread Darkness, near sleep. A Ferris wheel swings toward me, sink full of dishes, splinters of glass. I show the scar on my breast to a man in the neighborhood. I slice my arm, limp strips on a Nile blue plate. A severed head rides the gold river. I'd like to help, I call. Calmly, the small mouth answers You can't. When I wake I don't want to help anyone. I share the restless euphoria striking a line at the bakery. We smell new bread, brown, rounded, as it is lifted from ovens. Last night I dreamed a wheeled chair rolled in the dark next door, touring the shadows, making a savage noise.

Photo by Elsa García

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