“Eating Mom”

by Angelle McDougall

I put a little of myself
into everything I cook
Mom says, making bread
on the formica kitchen table

I watch her stretch and fold the dough
her hands push and roll the spongy mass
that reminds me of her belly
pasty and deflated by motherhood
she pinches off a small ball
and pops it into my mouth

I smoosh the slightly sour glob
between my tongue and the roof
of my mouth savour the yeasty treat
she pats my protruding stomach
and leaves a smudge of flour
soft as baby powder on my apron

when I realize particles of her skin
have been incorporated into the dough
each time she kneads it. I stop
mid-chew but can’t spit it out swallow
the gift and allow it to nourish me

is this why she has shrunk?
have we been gnawing away
at her all these years?
how many loaves before she disappears?

Angelle McDougall is neurodivergent and a graduate of The Writers’ Studio program at Simon Fraser University in Vancouver, British Columbia. She has poems published in Rattle Magazine and Wordplay at Work Magazine. Some of her other work can be found online at angellemcdougall.com.