Death Rise Sourdough

Flour on my hands like ash from the dead. Wild yeast breathing under my bed.

Glass jar heartbeat swollen and mean Fed at dawn, starving by seventeen. Hydration Creeping

under my skin. Stretch and fold 'til the pressure sets in. Every bubble a

threat, every rise a lie. You don't rush the living or

the living dies. Clock keeps ticking but I don't obey. Time bends when

the culture wakes. Hands in the dough, wrists locked tight. If I don't bake

bread, I start fights. Ferment. Wait. Rise.

Rage Des- Tory Heat so high it splits the