Bread for the Sabbath

When I bake challah,
I am calling down
My Grandmother, and her Mother,
And all the Mothers before.
I am calling on
The women of the shtetls
And the ones in the ghettos;
The Priestesses of the desert
And the Grandmas in crowded tenements in Brooklyn.
When I braid the dough,
I am weaving in warmth,
And laughter, and tears;
Sand of the Sinai
And bitter cold Russian winters.
I feel the Mothers
With all my heart
And all my mind
And all my strength.
And when I sing
Soft and low
They will rise into my hands,
And we will push
And pull
And turn the loaves
Over and over
And over.