after he savors his cup of coffee

into a long stretch of morning’s infant hours.

Part milk, heaps of sugar, a whole modest

affair of candied indulgence, this
childish happiness. Unfold this bagged

breakfast, warm with its sands

of crumbs. Slice it in half though not

all the way, pull it apart and birth a bed
cupped in palm. And how simple

is coconut jam, no measurements

needed, control discarded, all want

and remembering. How this may be
no viennoiserie, but childhood

is brought back to him, those summers

in the South of France, crusty baked rolls

 served by the sea, so strikingly
similar to pandesal. How expensive those were,

he says. How heavenly these are, he whispers.

Flour, sugar, yeast, and salt, how simple

melting is. Far too simple unlike what it took
for us to reunite – their policies abided,

procedures tolerated, just to end

that distance, that cruel hunger

from gated borders. Then, at last,

to share bread with you.