I made a mistake.
Not one of those – mistook the salt for sugar
kind of mistakes, or – oops, the oven isn’t on
The mistake was to bake in the first place.
I measured out the ingredients as I mixed together thoughts
of your face, of your response
to my sugar-spun irises, smiling at you
from over a gateaux – no
I should never have stepped
out of obscurity and into the kitchen, covering
my countertops in cocoa, contemplating your kiss.
I presented it to you on a floral plate, too late
to take it back, to un-bake the offering
of the edible, and the inedible (that being myself).
The break-room was silent, as you stepped back three paces,
declared an allergy to dairy, and dashed, spilling tea from your tray as you went.
It was a weekend misspent, changing Miss to Mrs on stray envelopes,
a thought mis-baked, in an over-heated studio, in which the only contestant