The mother gently grabbed some magic
cake mix, cupped the flap of the box,
bent a strip back and strained lines into it.
When it popped, she measured the mix in
memories: The scuffed handkerchief laced H.M
stained with blood from the fall last week,
the smell of fall leaves dipped in scotch
from cans of Febreze. She walked to the window pane,
scooped mix out the bowl with her fingers
as if to bake it with her interlocked hands.
She thrust it outward and let it fall.
No comments:
Post a Comment