cyprus sanicle, Madeline Harpell

 

 

She kneaded dough like she was making love.

 

I would have known this, if I had paid attention.

She always made her own bread

because she hated high-fructose corn syrup.

High fructose corn syrup is in everything.

 

I didn’t have time to watch her knead dough;

I didn’t recognize the band-aid on her finger

where she’d sliced it open chopping shallots.

She loved to cook, if only to watch me eat.

 

I lived in my own separate world,

while she lived in every world she touched,

leaving a piece of herself behind in each one

until she had pieced herself apart.

 

I could taste pieces of her in every loaf–

her cooking made me forget the flavor

of chemicals, the toxicity of corn syrup

heavy on my tongue.

 

But when I cut her out

I realized that I couldn’t cook.

I could make toast,

but only from supermarket bread.

The kitchen felt empty.

 

The next time I saw her,

kneading dough in a cooking class,

there was a ring

making little stamps in the dough.

I saw her kiss another woman.

My mouth watered.