There is a number for every absence:
one plate left on the shelf,
two chairs pushed under the table,
three days since the last difficult word.
But bread, once broken,
refuses to be counted correctly.
One loaf becomes six ragged pieces,
then seven, after someone remembers
the late arrival.
No miracle appears in the kitchen:
the knife sticks in a crust;
the butter is cold;
the table legs disagree about the floor.
Still, the smallest piece is offered
without being weighed.
Still, a hand from the far end of the table
reaches into the distance we had made
and brings the salt within reach.