She is the child whose hands 	
smell of cinnamon. She has the baker's gene,
they say, inherited from her grandmother
who was the master of all things bread.

She is the child of warmth, somehow
the spark in her almond eyes
softening like yeast in warm potato water,
gluten hands holding the mixture together:

	Sugar from her natural sweetness
	salt from her hidden tears
	water boiling with the heat of anger
	shortening of her temper
	milk of her veins
	mixed in the bowl of her life.

She is the child of labor, the dough 
kneaded by her hands into loaves
rising through the night	
then oven baked at earliest dawn.

She is the child of magic, her bread
has the power, it is said,
to make you fall in love with her
from the inside out and the outside in.

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