I was fourteen when I first tasted real bread
Having moved to Milan from big D
The land of bland Wonder

I left Dallas after a year of peak pain
Most of eighth grade culminating
In grand jury testimony against my father
And termination of his parental rights
Three months later we moved to Italy

I would have gone anywhere
To avoid my shame and terror
I still cringe naming those real feelings
Real like a color you think only you can see

I practiced lying about things that didn't matter
Testing to see if my lies were detectable
To protect my sense of self, of cleanliness, of value
To protect my right to imagine that I had a future

So when I moved to Milan
I gained the priceless gift of anonymity
I couldn't say what had happened to me if I tried
Not in Italian
My inability to say it allowed me to become someone new

I moved through the streets, no longer dependent on adults and cars
I took the subway, traveling miles underground which suited me perfectly
No one knew where I was
I was safe

The smells come to mind
The sooty exhaust of an industrial city
The bitter tang of espresso - everywhere - and
Of course, bread

There were bakeries around every corner
Enough that you could smell baking bread
And sometimes almost-burning sugar
Wherever you might be

I learned, with all my senses
That life goes on after war
Buildings are rebuilt, people still dress up, and
Bread is truly daily, no matter the disasters

I've never been much of a baker (the rules, you know)
But I learned to tell the truth, and
I've become my own source
The yeasty start of the ever-new me