4. ratios: self:flour::rising:

you were the one who taught me how to bake,
the right combination of flour, salt,
sugar, what have you. you with the pulsing
veins beneath your skin, the blue rivers of
red blood cells rushing along their own small
superhighway. coursing through your skin.

you were the one who left me here alone,
to fend for myself in this garden of
persons and spices and flowers and all
those things that i cannot even begin
to name. being alone smells like yeast warm
rising in the oven. yes, just like that. 

we will leave so much left unsaid, like the sound
of your blood moving me. it is what keeps
me still, in this space. i am stuck; the dough
pressed against the silver rim. i must wait,
here, rising in my own private oven;
until i have doubled myself, alone. 

Dylan Ingraham's exchanging histories, Yan Wang's 4., Steve Ersinghaus' those often chance meetings we have.