Our wool socks steaming
by the tiny stove, we poise
over tea, encountering the animal
smell of ourselves
in each other. The tea itself
incidental but necessary,
cooling in our mugs. We sip
and stare at our hands,
our drying pant legs, the stove
steeping in the room’s
sourdough air. How people
used to meet, I think,
yes, keeping yeast starter
alive in their clothes,
breaking isolation
like bread, a trail
going only so far. This is
my body, the least
I would have you know.