Crushed

The sun trapezed over my knuckles

When I picked up warm wheat

By fistfuls

Put out to dry by my grandmother

After it was washed and scrubbed.

It would leave in me 

Heat, imprint, smell.

Now our packaged flour

Slips right through

The gaps between my fingers.

Those birthed by the earth 

Do not hold each other any more.

We maintain sanitized contact

Mediated by steel and plastic.

First published in Madness Muse Press, 11 Jun 2018.