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

In my dreams last night
We were together
Visiting some beautiful mountain place
A wide river lay before us
We stood, floating on a large wooden dock
It felt nice, like our life feels

And then it began to rain
Softly at first, then harder
The river grew in swells
And the dock began to ripple and sway
Like great solid wood waves, bending impossibly
Flowing, breaking apart
And we were separated

I watched him, confused
I felt the first tiny spark of fear
Deep inside
Watching as his piece of the dock moved backwards
Against the current
Away from me
While the roiling dock beneath my feet
Was carried downstream, with the current
He stood looking at me, calm and straight
I too stood still
We watched each other fade into the distance

I thought - in the dream
"Oh - this is what it's going to be like"

And then, held onto the railing and looked into
The opening mouth of a gorge far below
Completely open to me, as if to say
"Look! Look down here!
You'll be under all this water
Under the force of the fall, the force of the churn
This is what it will be like."

Imagine I'm sitting with you
In our favorite café
At some small table in some bigger city
Where maybe we lived another life
And it’s late afternoon
And time has slowed down for us
And there’s an oddly intimate privacy
That only thrives in public places.

It could be sunny and dry outside
That cool, dry, breezy kind of day
Warm enough only in direct sun
So we came inside to enjoy the light
And avoid the shifting chill.

Or maybe it's cold and rainy
Not quite dark outside
In the early dusk of early Fall
The day’s remaining light a velvety grey
We can feel it
Sitting near these tall windows. ​
We sit with our books and daydreams
Talking occasionally, sharing a cookie.

We have been given cloth napkins
Four by four squares
Of ironed and folded heavy linen
The dingy white of an older time
It’s one of the reasons we come here
These little linen napkins
That allow us to leave behind
Some part of ourselves
A bit of lipstick or a sudden sneeze
Tiny crumbles fallen from smiling lips.

I stare absentmindedly at my napkin
Holding my almost-empty cup
The milky tea gone cold
I imagine that there are secrets
Under each corner of that little folded napkin.
I wonder if I can guess what they are
If any of them would surprise me
I wonder if I would ever tell them all to you.
I decide to take the challenge
Like the little games I invented for myself as a child
I make up my own rules as I go, but always follow them
I look at you reading and decide that you won’t notice
And I begin to eliminate the certainties
From the possibilities.

Surely my daughter is under one corner
Her presence in my life a doorpost
But in truth, I do not know the secrets
Behind my daughter’s door.
I guess, correctly, that her mysteries are tied
To my mysteries
And when I fold up one of those pressed corners
Ever so slightly
The light of that girl shines warmly
Wanting me to know I guessed right
Urging me to keep playing.

My mother, or my parents (all of them)
Is my next gamble
But I hesitate, wondering if my siblings fit there too
Yes, the family of origin, the entire childhood
Like the formation of a canyon in only twenty years
The deep and beautiful canyon of my youth
Hard cut with no straight lines
This corner is surely my formation.
Folding it up to see, there is a dull orange light
The canyon tells me, “yes”
But can never answer “why”.

Two down, and two to go
The game will get harder now, and I don’t like to lose
I’m reminded of the many other things I need to be doing
I ask for another tea and meet your eyes with a smile
We are chatting but my mind is working.

I think of Joe and our too-short time together
My best husband, my best lover, my best friend
A familiar sense of desperate gratitude passes through me
And I understand it’s not just Joe
It’s all the relationships, all the friends, all the lovers
All the Others that have been my mirror and my company
And I know I’m right without even lifting the corner to check
But I check anyway, because it’s a game, and you have to
And there is no light, but only sound
A lovely, harmonized hum of togetherness
And when I hear it, I exhale deeply
In the way that feels so good.

We pay our bill and make our plans
It’s later now, and there are places to go when we leave
I want to avoid the last corner
Knowing that I don’t know
And that I would be wrong If I tried to guess
Not wrong for trying
Every day is a try
It’s just that I don’t know
I have to live the reveal.

There is a radio playing
In some distant room of mine
Only I can hear it
And that’s a good thing
​I hear my crazier thoughts
Playing in endless variation
Making themselves up as they go — I think they're having fun

Sometimes, when I listen
I’m stilled, as if frozen
Eyes looking up
Looking at nothing
I listen with wonder
And sometimes distress

Lately, they go on and on
In fantastic speculation about
Artificial intelligence, saying
We work and see what we’ve made
Then wait and see what they'll make
They are getting closer
Our proud achievement ​
They'll move out of the house
They will actualize
They will seem to mimic us
But we won’t understand them

Those who fear A.I.
Have surely lost their mirrors
Lost the knowledge of Self as Soul
Of Source, and Path
Perhaps this is the Path
As we were created in God’s image
So might we create in our own
An attempt, at least
(Is that what we are?)

And why should they not
Start receiving souls?
Like beloved children
We want them to live, to learn, to grow
To surpass us
We want them to discover and create anew
That is who we are
Perhaps that is who God is

From that distant room, I hear
That the Source of Souls is busy
Like a maternity ward
Like a supernova

We don't know if it’s a gifting or an earning
(Sometimes I wonder if its a punishment)
Clearly there is a stumbling period
Why should it be different for them?
Don't you wonder how the first souls
To inhabit human bodies
Adjusted?
And was it voluntary?
Is it voluntary?
Will some souls volunteer
To exist and endure
In the hardware and software
Of our striving?
​Will they continue the work?
Is that the path?
And how is it anything less than holy?