By C.R. Willsie
There is a doughnut weight to things in my days:
Heavier globes come back around after so many years;
I find myself baking the same gray cakes,
Waking up with the same groggy mouth.
Heavier things, him, are here
Ruining my every birthday dinner
Making me go off in some black hood rage,
Burning everything I put in the oven.
I hated him during main courses
But then he drew funny cake drawings
All over my sugar face!
Like the smiley bastard he can be at dessert.
Cake without frosting. Some things can trick me:
Legs, a touch on the back, any number of whispers
And even the shape of a man’s soft, yeasty skull.
Raw eggs this year.
Ultimately, I have an attraction to lingering globes:
His head, his head, his eyeballs and knees,
A man’s two great elbows and toes!
The Sundays of my past years. Cupcake things.
And though his tongue is more oval,
That lingers, too. I follow devil balls everywhere.
My mind’s ability to love
Circles and cake tins is, actually, that magnificent.