by Rebecca Samford
Cookies aren’t made from scratch now,
scratching the surface of our sugar
Need. Love feeds you from the inside
out—by hand. Betty Crocker was a man
with a metal hand – a conveyer belt
to goodness, if you can call it that. William
needed a “cheery, All-American name.”
Look at the ingredient list, find flavor
enhancers and preservatives. How do I
preserve this feeling to hold you forever
and for every moment a bold swell
in my chest, that tastes like courage,
or righteous indignation? We will
make the world a better place. (Or,
at least the 1800 square feet around us.)
We will make a choice. We will stir the batter
In our own bowl with a simple wooden
spoon until the egg in you and the flour
in me combine smooth as churned butter.
Unsalted because it cannot last
beyond this one lick of the spoon.
Swallow and all is forgotten.
Spit and nothing is forgiven.
Sing and I will hear you halfway around
the world until my heart aches
like the bread we forgot to kneed.
Bubbling over hopeful on the counter,
ready until there was nothing to rise
against and it fell flatter than it had
been in the beginning. Why do chocolate
chips come from child labor? Slaves who
will never eat the sweetness of the fruit
born on their own dreams and hurts
down to the kidneys. Swollen with
broken promises from your two lips.
Cookie dough wrapped air tight – this
means it cannot breathe – and pinched
on the ends – because love has its limits.
Cut it open. Spoonfuls on the same metal
sheet you’ve used for a decade. Bake.
Cool. Feel the warm, gooey goodness
in your mouth and the never-ending
aching empty in your core until you suck
the sugar straight from the cane.
Your mouth wrapped around the straw
of it and you learn that earth and truth
and living from the beginning to the end
cannot be saved up for later, cannot
be dehydrated and re-watered as fresh
as the seed and you give yourself
to love like the grain of wheat ground
between granite, and rising still.
