somewhere your hands are in dough infused with cinnamon
chocolate shavings and dried cranberries you knead & roll
this sticky firm mass on a flour-coated board as if forming a fist
but there is no violence in this process only tenderness
like an infant’s back lifted upward in one motion once satisfied
you tear off pieces with a light squeeze & mold them into balls
placing each one on a buttered baking sheet to rise
i taste what you have made my bitter-sweet tongue wanting
to become like dough once in your hands crafted into something
worthy of love not what is before me now a plate of chocolate
streaks cranberries & crumbs i leave the dish uncleaned for days
unable to scrub evidence of you & your tender labor
