The Trade

I.
Forgive my father, the promise
that he made, that I could turn
all this to gold, twist precious thread
from nothingness, the dead stalk
threshed from grain, the humble
waste of his life’s trade into
something more. What did he know
of alchemy, the dark art of creation?
After a lifetime bent grinding grist
from grain, he knew only that a good,
once broken down, could be worth
more, would be sold and bought
and shaped by someone else’s hand
into something greater still—the taste
of nourishment and pleasure, the ritual
of devotion. Once broken again,
the bread could even turn into
the body itself. What more did he need
to know of faith? Here on earth
he understood the weight of water,
grit and stone, the breaking work,
the spinning wheel, the cost of meal
and flesh and bone. The price visited
upon his body was reason enough alone
to risk his only daughter for the chance
that I might lead a life worth more
than his own. When he gave me up
he believed in the transmutation
of flour and water into bread and hoped
for the power of prayer wept into stone.
He did not imagine the loss ingrained
in something cast by his own hands,
the cost of those final hours—a child
and a daughter transformed
into a mother, begging for a love
greater than our own. Forgive him.