I remember entering her kitchen
to find dough spilling over
the earthenware edge of the bowl
resting on her floral oilcloth;
how sometimes I could feel a breeze
through her eyelet curtains, as if hinting
of invisible visitors.
I remember the way the kneaded dough became
larger than itself, like the spirit overflowing
the confines of the body,
and the air of her whole house
that would soon enough
fill with a holy aroma