VENKATESWARAN, Pramila

Bread

After the explosion, after the unruly scattering,

uneasy quiet on the streets, shut windows,

litter.

The baker turns on the light in his shop,

wipes the front window with its single bullet hole

springing rays of splintered glass

and begins to knead the dough.

Someone’s got to make bread even during war,

he says matter-of-factly.

Soon people will step like shadows

onto the street, weave their way to him

and carry home a loaf to be shared.