Backe, Backe Kuchen

by Scott Ferry


After watching a documentary
about the shark-calling people of Tembin

and the way the man sings and embraces
the muscular neck with a firm rope

then slowly releases the glassy-eyed snout,
my wife leads my daughter to bed. Lani’s eyes

open underwater, searching for the edge.
Molly softly intrudes into the shallows

with milk and saffron and lard until they are both lying
on the ceiling of a bakery in Weimar, the flour

whitening the creases of their eyes. The baker
has declared! Zucker and salz, again, yes!

And they recline grinning in a bed of steam, or butter,
or ocean sponges, yellow as curds.

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