This Is What Trust Is

When we make bread, she tells me 

this is what trust is, as she kneads the dough. 

You push your whole weight into something 

in hopes that it will feed someone.

When the sharp edge of the crust cuts the top of my mouth,

she tells me, as blood mixes with salted butter, 

this is what trust is. I give you something I made, 

I pushed and pulled, I give you something to eat and 

you eat it even though it could cut you. 

I say, tongue poking the sore bit on the 

roof of my mouth, it’s good. She smiles.

When I smear roasted garlic on the loaf, pungent sweetness incarnate, 

she tells me in Spanish they call garlic cloves ‘dientes de ajo’: 

teeth of garlic. This is what trust is. Teeth on bread. 

When I leave her, I kiss her on the cheek and

she tells me that when you find someone, you make them bread. 

See if they see how much you put into it. See if they trust you. 

I say, grinning, it's just flour and water. 

She tells me this is what trust is. Simple things 

becoming something greater. It sounds small. 

We know it’s bigger than that.