Tuesday, February 14, 2017

Wares of the baker's wife

in my kitchen:

different cookie cutters—same lack of dough
Measured twice, 

my children all arrive red and bleating;
cut once,

brushes and lyres in hand.
It's a painful passage.

They spring formed from the pan
ready to devour whatever's put before them.
And I, the mixing bowl culprit
—I wonder 

 at complicity in the spareness
everywhere except the sideboard.

Cakes and cakes,
I've given them excess,

currants and spelt,
access to private recipes, hunger

to do cooking up of their own, 
the crooning over eggshells,

the gentle folding in of song
till they warble and wail in kitchen tongue.

For the rest of their days: infant hope.
And I ask them to be good

while I stand beside 
the oven door praying.

Emma J. Barlow

 Emma J. Barlow

Emma J. Barlow

 Emma J. Barlow

Emma J. Barlow

 Emma J. Barlow

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