By John M. Anderson
Hot oatmeal between us — your bowl, mine,
and the common pot all full with meal the warm
color of brain or bone — this platinum gruel
set with rich jewels of raspberry deep
as contusions, welling.
Breakfast swollen as the overcast
winter sky that fills the window roiling.
Spoon it warm as life into your nut-sweet mouth,
the whole grain melted into this proto-bread. Lift
its little gasp of steam to feed your answering breath.