the flour bags
(all three)
are nearly empty.
self rising filters up
in a ghostly cloud
and bits of cocoa
sprinkle across the edge of my palm,
as yet unsweetened
i will wait thirty-six minutes
and cut out my middle
(it is all i have left).
i have no energy
to label out names
nor to carry them to classrooms,
so why do i stand staring
at the mostly empty cabinet,
the almost-gone butter,
and the four fewer eggs?
i will not wash the bowl,
but wastefully fill it with water
to sit overnight in the sink
where mid-morning my husband’s gentle hands
will take a sponge
in circular motions
that i picture now with tears in my eyes
as the crusted-on mix
disintegrates against his skin.
this is the taste of joy
i offer to them,
baked with the hollowness hovering
deep inside the truth
i will not share,
a portion of myself
that they can swallow without remorse.
