Shaping Dough

My often pristine kitchen
shimmers tonight with the simple dust of flour
so that I might try, step by step,
to capture a whiff of France
in a new recipe for baguettes.

I have built a fortress of love
around skinny loaves
so crusty, with perfect hollows for butter,
that I risk my own curvaceous fears
to shape this dough into a thing of beauty.

Now, near midnight, I am a crane at the edge of the estuary
waiting for the moment of golden perfection
to snatch the hot bread out of the oven
and deposit it to cool.

In the morning, my boy will slather this experiment
with apricot jam and ask me when I can bake like this again.
I will hide my hands in my apron pocket around the magic proportions
listed on parchment
like I have earned a new diploma.