Loaf

In the dream, 
            I’m the one pushing her 
into the crematorium. 
            She’s on a tray of sorts—
or maybe 
            it’s a dresser drawer. 
The thing has sides, 
            as if she might fall 
out of death. 
            Her mouth opens 
like a trap door: 
            “Really? You’re going 
to do this to your mother?” 
            She’s smirking as usual. 
And then suddenly 
            she’s a mound of dough, 
and it’s time for CCD. 
            The priest explains 
how bread becomes body. 
            “What a loaf of nonsense,” 
she says. “He’s got 
            it backwards, 
as any mother will tell you.”
            We kids devoured her… 
Eat, skinny man. 
            No more art before the horse. 
For memory to rise, 
            it needs flames. 

Ralph James Savarese | Volatile
Contents | Mudlark No. 82 (2025)