the theory of cake

You are an occasion.
Cake, in fact.
All your ingredients –
flour, sugar,

the look in your eyes –
measured parts
of a sucrose destiny.
You have memorized

yourself, finding fate
in the small spaces,
blendingeggs, milk,
the air around your edges,

pouring the light-haired
batter:  a mix of heat, poise,
sodium bicarbonate.
You froth an alchemy

that swells, gilding
aroma, deep-seated
as hipbones. Your
surface splits joy.

There’s a sheen to you,
made for buttercream;
how you hide crust
with long leg frosting.

You cube womanhood,
serving yourself up
with a party napkin,
thumbing the crumbs.

© Tori Grant Welhouse