Arlene Weiner: More

The plastic bag promises “12 Grain Bread,”

and I laugh. If one grain is good, should twelve

be better? Are there twelve good grains?

And I remember, it’s Shavuot,

the Feast of Weeks, a festival

I don’t completely understand, the end

of the seven times seven days’ count of the omer—

something to do with grain. Wheat, I assume,

the staff of life. I’m shopping for my son’s little family,

whole grain for my grandson.

.

I look at the label to count the grains:

Whole wheat flour (one), malted barley flour (two),

rye, oats, (four), corn grits, sunflower seeds

(not a grain, say six, provisionally),

brown rice (seven), triticale (eight),

barley, buckwheat (a grass, but let it pass—

ten), flaxseed (don’t know), millet (twelve), soy grits.

A baker’s dozen? Most of them listed

after molasses.

.

Before he could speak my grandson learned

two signs, Finished, More,

like the first wordless words

at the breast, turning the head

or latching on.

.

More grains, more good,

more goods, the large life.

.

The festival of Shavouth celebrates first fruits,

seven kinds, and the early harvest of barley, not wheat.

I’ve looked it up now. The rabbis say

the forty-nine days of counting the omer

restrain the excitement of receiving the Torah

at Sinai. Forty years in the desert

endured by twelve tribes.

.

My grandson has speech now.

I sing for him,

Do you know the muffin man,

his favorite song,

hardly finish before he says, More!

(c) 2022 Arlene Weiner

Arlene Weiner is a poet and playwright who lives in Pittsburgh. Her books include City Bird (Ragged Sky 2016).