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Peggy Aylsworth – II

Needles and Good Bread 






Whose body is this on the examining table?

Oh! it seems to be mine, once again.

Outside, the sky has flung its panoply of blue,

a blanket of comfort.

The familiar needle

stabs, not as the sudden strike of love

but as the nettle’s stinging hairs invade

the doe, though

I have choice. Does she

recover nibbling on a tender green?

For me, a bite of crusty bread, its center

soft, a little sour,

will banish minor slings,

the paltry wounds that chill the skin.

Just yesterday my ardent counterpart

informed me

that my love of pan rests in

the heart of the friendliest of words: companion.

Break bread, indeed, with the taste of touch.