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for just one more taste of the monster?
Where would I start?
Where would I finish?
How much to admit?
How much to hide?
How much to confess?
Where would I find such nerve
without crank to open my mouth?
And if I did dig down deep enough to find it,
would I crumble and weep?
Would she?
The Kitchen Was Warm
and carried a scent
of hot butter, wrapped
in cinnamon.
It reminded me
of when I was little.
Before Jake.
Before Scott.
Despite Dad.
Back when I still believed
Mom was the perfect mother.
She, Leigh, and I were the trinity.
We baked together.
Canned together.
Planned together.
Plotted birthdays
and holidays around
homemade gifts
that didn’t cost much
