Mary Alice Dixon

The Secret of the Kneading in My Sourdough Bread

My face wears secret grief
in corrugated lines
mapping
the loss of my blossom
when my body
made blood offerings of life.

Seeking sustenance
in the church of indulgence
I turn
to my Loaves & Fishes Cookbook,
frayed pages spiral-bound,
notes in the margins
stained with Spam
and memories
of my own Great Depression.

Here I find blessings
in Betty Crocker cakes spiked
with Bud Lite and sugar,
in Ritz Cracker pies topped
with Cheez Whiz and butter,
in sourdough bread mixed
with Dream Whip and pepper

and the flesh
of one bitter orange, crushed.

Though my eyes often water
my wrinkles,
I go on tasting life,
beating sorrow with salt,
rising bread as if baby
fermented so long in the longing,
still so alive in the wanting,
mixed with the grit and the rye
seeding my stone-ground flour

kneaded with strength
kneaded so hard
kneaded so much

my bitter orange turns

to zest.

Mary Alice Dixon: Often under the Granny Tree in my Charlotte backyard, I build an Altar of the Broken—fallen feathers, twigs, dead leaves. I add wishbones on which I try to draw wings. Then I write the word “HOPE” on river stones and place them at the altar’s feet. The altar thanks me with a silence in which I hear voices, the voices of our wounded Mother Earth. She tells me my own secret wounds want to be told. From those wounds come poems about secrets of maternal grief. My poetry also comes from my years as an advocate for abused children. All this shapes the Hospice Grief Writing Workshops I lead, which include nature rituals, found poems, and homemade bread. My chapbook, Snakeberry Mamas: Words from the Wild (Charlotte Lit Press, 2025), offers the hopes and healings of Appalachian granny magic in plants and chants. Online: maryalicedixon.com.