I'll Take the Burnt Slice

My toaster

has jagged crumbs,

sharp edge fragments

of plain bread of truth.

Burnt crumbs

live alongside

the fresh, untoasted soft,

pale, trembling without scars.

Sourdough doubts

and rye complaints

are married

at the bottom of the falls—

their children are marbled,

a mixed heritage

tangy, fruity,

such dense crumbs.

The bread

is toasted,

burned on purpose

a reminder of childhood.