How odd
to take the
liquid from
a slice
leave her
rough, dry,
stale.

Then drag
a knife
across her face
for beauty’s sake,
exfoliation
by butter,
jam, jelly.

Not even strawberry
preserves
her place in the loaf.

No.
She,
crisp and hollow
lies alone
missing once
so supple
grains.

She is
Unnatural.

She is
Toast.