Baking Song

 I am baking again,
 after scraping the pan clean
 black with oil from last night's
 disaster, chartering a boat across the grey
 gravelly sauce that might have been edible had I not been so full
 to forget it
 toasting on the hob.
 We tread carefully through the flour;
 our feet, meet;
 faces on the floor.
 I am still singing as I throw in the rest,
 some eggs and some salt
 the radio on and the apron string chafing
 my skin, under the hairs, I whisper along
 the song
 a reminder.
 With tiny-mice-fingers I mix the butter in
 til it crumbles and rolls,
 becomes soft and crumbles again with the sugar,
 sweet white waves cascading, itching my palms.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s