Cake Making by Adam Horovitz

i

The kitchen is orange and smells

of butter, burned sultana, hope.

Outside, an owl rises amongst trees.

Moths batter at the window,

under the moustache of steam

obscuring its glassy upper lip.

This is the first baking in over thirty years

in this kitchen, the first making of cakes,

and they are flat, a plateau

instead of mountains, a wold

in biscuit. I can taste

disappointment in each uncragged bite.

ii

A vixen screeches sympathy over the valley

as I eat beneath umbrellad yew trees,

stare at the creamy smear of orange tea

hung in my cup like a full moon behind clouds.

I must stiffen the mixture. A measure in each mouthful.

The time of day rubbed into each baking. A jay's

screamed alarm in with the sultanas. Sunlight like cinnamon.

The night made chocolate, the dawn creaming

in my fingers like sugar and butter, rising

sharp as a spring in the high peaks of cake.

You can read more of Adam's work on his blog. His collection Turning is published by Headland.