In France, it’s just an ordinary name:
. it means “red mill,”
. a place to bring your grain;
. back then, the massive millstone’s rumble
. thundered to the rafters,
kicking up a storm of dust that plastered
sweaty skin with shards of grain and dimmed
. the lamplight’s shine
. and made the shadows spin.
. Back then, a different bump and grind
. brought patrons there:
a meal inviting them to taste, not stare.
Now, faster than it takes the feminine
. farine to rise
. into the masculine—le pain—
. lithe dancers swirl before our eyes.
. These graceful nudes
bake up a more exhilarating food.
© 2008 Al Hudgins