Seattle 12, or Sunday at the Kibbutz: a True Story

"Bagels"

They are impressed with my kneading stamina
at the dining room table.
It is important to use barley malt syrup
instead of sugar or honey,
and high gluten flour. I pocket these secrets
like keys to the house I grew up in,
though I know I am as likely to make my own bagels
as I am to walk through that door again.

Adam holds a piece in two hands and pulls,
the dough hardly stretches,
but doesn't break, either.
This means it's ready.
The kitchen is a warm like a schoolhouse in April:
yeast, steam, sesame seeds, sliced cucumbers.
Everyone takes a turn at the stove
to watch the baby bagels float
in boiling water.
Then, we decorate them with crowns
of sesame, flax, poppy, garlic.

We eat every single one,
passing the schmear and the lox,
the slices of avocado,
the bowls of strawberries,
melon, pineapple.

As we clean up, I sing.
No one really joins,

but no one complains, either.