in the burning starch of holy

dough beneath the chintz and dew

mom is making little circles

gainst the lilting gray 

 

of pressed-in-butter blueing arches,

still water through the soldier's chin

ripe in color, we are pandora

whose own thicket grows up sweet between us

 

pare butter from brick, become this

fraying cream ‘tween fingertips

 

sucking honeyed cracking heads 

 

this day is still worth making

 

for in two years she'll drive away

 

great dusty sides weaving papers through

 

great paper, folding the oatmeal's skin

 

into the past, which will yawn and pitch

with the weight of us.

 

knead this dough, and hold it

it knows the minds, the multitudes

the possibilities

she leaves

you