"Pumpernickel" is really a change in gears here.
My grandmother made pumpernickel and it was quite a--
in fact the poem came about--
a girlfriend many, many years ago
told me she was making bread, and I reminded her
of pumpernickel.
It had all these ingredients that you couldn't
imagine would work together, and that the bread suddenly
came about.
"Monday mornings, grandma rose an hour early
to make rye, onion, and challah, but it
was pumpernickel she broke her hands for.
Pumpernickel that demanded cornmeal, ripe caraway,
mashed potatoes, and several Old Testament stories
about patience and fortitude.
And for which she cursed in five languages
if it didn't pop out fat, as an apple-cheeked peasant bride.
But bread, after all, is only bread,
and who has time to fuss all day and end up with a dead heart
if it flops?
Why bother?
I'll tell you why.
For the moment when the steam curls off
the black crusts like a strip of pure sunlight,
and the hard, oily flesh breaks open like a poem,
pulling out of its own stubborn complexity
a single, glistening truth.
And who can help but wonder at the mystery of the human heart,
when you hold a slice up to the light,
in all its absurd splendor.
And I tell you we must risk everything
for the raw recipe of our passion."