Sliced bread torn in pieces,
dumped in a bowl. Bread drizzled
with black molasses. Bread white
as the milk that flooded it, milk
fresh from Mary-Ann, our own
crinkle-horn cow. A special treat
for me when I was four or five.
Trying it now I wonder how,
or if, I ever savored it. The problem
may be this watery, pasteurized
milk, or the molasses, not black,
merely suntanned. Bread, milk,
molasses: easy, cheap, nutritious.
But nostalgia’s best untasted.

:: Robert M Chute, in Wolf Moon Journal (2008)

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