IT RAINED WARM BREAD

When it is my turn

I press the side of my face up

against the boards and become a cyclops.

I am trying to see everything.

My wild eye sees one solid thing

among the many things that are rushing by.

It is a woman.

No, a group of women.

Standing.

And my one wild eye knows

that even though we are unseen …

These women SEE us.

They stand still.

They stand out.

They stand up.

For all of us.

Even though the wolves bully them

with their hard eyes and their sharp smiles,

these women see us

and they will not be moved.

And then they are

moved,

are moving,

rushing along,

bundled up against the cold.

Even though they can’t see us,

they know.

THEY KNOW.

And these women

in this town

do not turn away.

They turn toward a bakery.

One runs inside.

Others follow.

They come out with arms full.

Something flies into the cattle car.

It is a storm.

At first we are afraid,

Unsure of what is going on.

Our hands reach up

grabbing, pulling.

There is a sweet scent.

And then we know.

It is life.

It is bread,

still warm from the oven.

It is raining warm bread.

We have no table manners.

This is the first time we have eaten in a week.

We devour every loaf,

try to make them disappear before wolves

step in and take them away.

But we don’t have to worry.

The wolves do nothing.