My low maintenance making holds no truck with baking
I am
an
artist.
I have never enthused for the intellectual restraints of
measuring cups
or
spoons.
And this despite the certainty that riffing on the weighing scales doesn’t pay out:
my friend,
also an artist
plays hard and fast with the rules,
and his cakes are as dense as a collapsed star.
In by-gone times I’ve slithered into an apron,
sucked my chocolate-laced fingers in the mist of an open fridge,
sifted icing sugar provocatively
a skein of moisture on my lip as I triumphantly pulled
ginger bread from the oven.
Like others before me intermittently confusing domesticity with sex.
But when I think of you, there are no plans for baking.
No musings on what sweet stuff might cloy your mouth.
I want your tongue free
to talk to me.
So that rivers of easy laughter might flow.
I shall not dam your imagination with butter and flour.
I will not make cake.
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