Today’s theme: cake.
my boots have walked further than I ever will
they’re patched in more places than I have scars
and my knees are a tender network
I baked you a cake for your 100th birthday
I’m saving it til then.
the cream’s going sour, but
I don’t care
I like it better that way
I’m still working on your present.
The gas went out so the cake never cooked right. Thick caramelized crust and then just goo underneath. The skewer came out coated so I pressed a finger in, felt the top give way. The warm wet syrupy batter swallowing my knuckles to the palm. I pressed my fist in, and as I drew it out again it made a sick deep suck, a deathless gurgle and I balked at it. I saw myself reflected in the microwave, hair shoved aside, flour-dusted, forty, lonely and sagging, baking cakes for my own puckering stomach. I spat. Spat what was left of the cake on my teeth back into the black of the springform tin, watched the bubbles sit sullenly on the earthquaking top. I wished the gas would come back on so I could tape up the doors, black out the windows, leave the oven door open and sit for a day on the kitchen floor with a packet of matches and a mind for the boom.