Scones

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


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