Cookies? 

​

But the mind finds no peace
It grinds through the day
In ever-hammering beats of
Why me?   why not me?

 

​

I grind the coffee 
But it does not hit refresh

 

With every sip
My mind travels another inch in

A cut deeper 
Sliced from within 

​

It slices the dough fine and rash
Until I am neither in the cutter
Nor spilling out

​

I am the failed baker who bemoans 
The dough that does not rise 

​

 The rest fly
Their cookie cutters seem to love them
And in well-baked shapes
Lined on buttered trays

They ease out onto tables 
 

​

I cannot find my tray
Nor my table
Nor the will to rise
this cookie cutter
Doesn't feel like it's mine. 

Should I free-range it?
Just toss a whole mass of this dough
Into a burning stove
And see what emerges?

Be it a mushy black ball of carbon
Or oversweet clumps of butter
Will I be better off with dough that is not as raw?

​

Does the burning suffice?
Is it better than uncooked bewilderment?
Should I try my hand without a recipe this time
Letting the dough flush as it pleases

​

​

I snap the cookbook shut
untie my stupid Martha Stewart apron 
let the dough breathe. 

​

As I let the little baker out to play

she tosses tray after tray

puts the cookie cutters away

whips up

​

cupcakes

​

in a floury flurry

I let her go nuts
With the sprinkles and fairy dust. 

​

​