Jessica Pierce: “How to Take What You Want”

And another thing, as he splits open 
a warm loaf of bread, pleased with 
the crackle of crust. This  may I  business. 
Get to the point. Take action, damnit. 
And why tell me to do things, 
and then say thank you. Sit 
down, thank you. Take a number, 
thank you, stand there, thank you.

His father got to the point. For weeks he 
would watch his neighbors’ peach trees, rooted 
in the dirt of crumbled gods and goddesses. 
Waiting until the fruit stunned with ripeness. 
He would take it. He would eat it. 
The first time he went apple picking,
he ignored the abundant apples, found
a walnut tree on the other side of the fence.
He pointed. Smiled. After walking 
500 miles to escape the enemy army, 
after raising his children while his wife’s 
heart and mind failed, after crossing 
oceans, after loaf after loaf of coarse 
brown bread, he had no interest 
in denying himself such pleasures.

I spread apricot preserves
on my piece of bread. He dips 
his piece in fragrant olive oil,
the grass of his childhood unfurling beneath 
our feet. And then my baby runs towards 
us, hold me, no please 
no may I, and he grins as 
he reaches down for her. That’s how it’s done.