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Some smells burn from the stove.
Hands clap to together with clouds of flour
sinking to the red tile, already splattered with egg whites.
Smiles laced with sugar rise from cheek to cheek,
filling the kitchen with the heat from fresh bread
folded and shaped like a turtle by hand.
The back of its shell is browned and ridged,
cool to the touch after an hour.
Its small head and arms hardened to a crust.
Twelve years doesn't seem so long ago
with my mother, the turtle and the bread
when we just turned on the stove.