I am naked here,
arms stretched wide.
I’ve removed my apron,
my soles are rooted,
sandals tossed aside—
shaking my papery skins
of ochre, amber, umber,
deep chestnut brown
whistling down
as autumn storms
cause them to do
a little tune,
wild and flush,
like milk, like honey,
like money, or better—
the sound
of the storm-crested
rustling of two.
On the menu:
chocolate cakes.
Two, to be exact.
One with espresso in the batter, one
without.
One apple cake, one apple crisp.
One chocolate chip banana bread.
I am making these,
which I do not eat.
Pretzel peanut butter cookies are next,
or your mom’s pistachio bundt,
or pumpkin spice cupcakes,
some with sprinkles, some
without.
I will probably not eat much of them either.
Strangely, I am baking as if they are
for repast post funeral, attempts
at forgetting your superpowers,
the ones that always weakened,
arrested me.
Still wanting you to hold me,
settling for within,
but
without.
How cozy that morning
when the deer were in the yard
at daybreak,
soft glow from a book light,
coffee cup in hand.
How forgettable
after all that’s passed—
when the floors heaved
and rocks grew up through the boards.
When everything shook,
even the air rippled too warmly
around my head,
my ears hammering,
tuned in to ghosts
screeching in the hollow, to
the scream that
happens before the crash and echoes
ever after,
when my veins stopped
cold,
flatlined,
in the bite
of
your
words.