He Bakes

have you ever really watched a man make bread?

the way he concentrates,
his unruly brow furrowed so seriously as he carefully reads the recipe and measures each ingredient

the way he bites his bottom lip,
his tongue sneaking out to wet it before his top teeth clench down

the way his fingers ever-so-slightly pinch the top corner of the cookbook page,
effortlessly gliding down the backside with a push as he turns it

the way the flour powders his cheek and nose and backside where he’s unconsciously touched himself as he mixes and measures

the way his forefinger delicately and evenly slides across the top of the measuring cup to level it,
swiping away the extra ingredients

the way he so fluidly moves around the kitchen,
following the recipe from step to step,
organizing and arranging,
in control

the way his hands envelope the dough,
pushing and folding in rhythm,
knuckles and palms pressing and molding it precisely

the way his forearms lend strength to his hands in ripples and waves of movement

the way his shoulder and upper back muscles so swiftly tense and release in knots and threads as his arms work

his easy patience,
waiting for the dough to rise

the persuasive curve of his backside and the clenching of his thighs as he bends to smoothly slide the baking sheet into the oven

his pride and eagerness to share when the bread comes from the oven,
perfectly baked,
ready to be devoured

the bread is heavenly,
but I’d rather devour the baker

-image via Pixabay

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