Slowly, the yeast starts budding
The Egyptian smiles in her baking chamber
On this warm day, she has lifted the souls
Of the evocative fungi and an eager bread
Four thousand years ago, she left its traces
On her grinding stone for man to discover
His first domesticated being and a series of experiments
To brew his beer and leaven his bread
Sweet fermented bread
Golden crusts and ubiquitous pockets
Like secret caves or a string of swallows’ nests
Soft and tender crumbs
In the supermarket, I buy a packet of these
Live cells packed in thick inert jackets, and
I think as I dissolve the oblong beige granules
When the dough is baked, the yeast will die
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