Feb 21, 2007
She churned their smiles
in a wooden bucket,
stirring constantly memories
while sprinkling arguments
at sordid intervals to bring
about those tear flavored regrets.
She kneaded the frustration
into elastic patience,
quietly stretching back and forth
to the point of almost breaking
into halves of forgiveness.
Almost.
Sometimes she left the mixture
in the oven long enough
for the dough to turn into
scorched black hate-crusts,
inedible had it not been hidden
by honey-glazed vengeance.
She never ate what she baked.
instead, she served the feast
in silver platters, waiting
until the soiled plates broke
so she could lick the leftover
crumbs off their stained fingers.
Then she would wash her hands
and dry them with her apron,
smiling at the sated heavings.
She then puts away the flour and milk
before they could watch her
turn a little of her soul into
a pillar of salt.
