Jagna in a Jar.

While people watched the Sun God being devoured by a dragon *, I fondled my dough. Her pronouns are She / Her / Dope.

I watch her breathe, I feel her inhale the air of the kitchen. She bubbles, she triples, she puffs like my grandpa used to while smoking his cigars bought underground in a Communist Poland. I employ the warmth of my hands, the patience I did not know I had.

Once a week, I speak with this living thing that smells of promises, yeast, and a calm 3 a.m. neighborhood. Her jar is unwashed, and we both like it that way.

I could also send her letters, as Bonaparte did to his Josephine:

“Don’t wash, I’m coming in three weeks.”

I named her Jagna.

Jagna is from a famous Polish novel written long ago. She was a woman who burned from the inside out, giving away the fires of her desires. She moved from one heart to another with a kind of ferocity that makes you vertiginous. Like my intoxicating dough. Yes.

When I began baking her, I measured her like a life in science class: raw milk, spelt, and a touch of cloves. Timed, written down, alarms set, grams adjusted, ritualized. I was a factory. A soldier. I obeyed.

But she doesn’t—she flares, she collapses if not spoken to properly, she will stick to your hair and make you lose breath if you pinch her without a proper foreplay. I guess—temperamental—is the word.

Two things require this wild attention. Both will die if [...]