what is real, Jésus or the bakery?
do we eat the bread or the body?
Jésus oversees the bakery. From his Madonna-like spot in the corner the neon pink print looks down on the machines. They bang and chug. Clanking of a dull, unleavened bread on a metal countertop, rhythmic. A lot of metal is needed to make bread, I now know.
Jésus looks fragile, his face sculpted from printed porcelain, neatly tucked behind the frame. We chuckle along in the corner of his inside joke, we feel special. He has already forgiven us, papá would say. (And then he would gesture to heaven with the same hands that whacked and punched the bread in the morning — as if it was his last.)
I don't know who framed Jésus, or why he is in neon pink. It is a strange place for Jésus, high up and on a strange angle. You would think he would have more important places to overlook. And yet he never seems to get impatient. Jésus is of a small size, no larger than two bricks, but when our eyes sting from the clouds of flower his neon pink forehead cuts straight through the yeasting air into our retinas. Would we move him, we would rediscover a humble square of blinking tilework. We would say: huh! How strange we forgot the walls were made of tile. For half an hour or so we would draw smiley faces and our names in the dust of the tiles with our fingers. And then we would make bread again, and the walls would slowly dust back into yeast.
© Merle Findhammer.