six-thirty a m
Written for Mum.
She hops up and down
On the chair
Back to the floor, searching
For flour in this cupboard, and perhaps
The vanilla is over here
Where are the eggs, I need
Four eggs!
In the kitchen, she turns the radio down soft and
Runs
From the stove to the microwave
From the sink to the mixing bowl
Because
Making a cake is a flurry of
White flour on my hands my face my sleeves in my hair!
She has a spoon in one hand
A beater in the other
And a spatula tucked behind her ear, which is cherry red
From pie filling
And spilling down her cheek in a long tearstain
Of bright thick juice
The oven is on three-seventy-five, right, because if it
Isn't
Then what am I going to do turn it up
Turn it down
Now I know why mom doesn't bake very
Often
She had an apron
A nice green apron with purple crocuses on it
But the milk got all over that
She had an apron
A nice flowered apron in pink, red, lavender and cranberry
But she let the chocolate spill on that
And the cherries, too, and the batter
But that one she's still wearing
The butter and the sugar are medals of honour that
The floor is wearing
She flour-greases the cake pans, because
Non-stick sprays smell bad
And she taps the flour out in the trash with a sneeze
All this flour!
And then she dances up again, with her apron twirling
About her
And she grabs the vanilla she's found at last
And stirs in the chocolate all mottled
She gets out the coffee to sift over everything when it's all finished
For her mother loves coffee
Even though she doesn't and
I've lost my place in the book again oh where
Is the recipe why
Am I always losing my place
Oh!
She curls her toes around the seat of the chair, stirring the batter
Which is turning pink
From the cherry pie filling
That's dribbled down her neck
When everything is done it'll
Be lovely
Special occasions demand special projects
And it's Mothers' Day, and I
Hope the coffee comes out of the dishcloths and I
Hope the flour comes out my hair
She pours the batter into the pan and it's
Lovely
All chocolate and cherries
And coffee sifted on the top
She puts it in the oven and squeals
Because she's turned on one of the burners by mistake
And the potholders are on fire
What do they always say about stove fires what what what
Baking soda!
And all the while the cake bakes
Blissfully unaware
Of the baking soda filling up the kitchen air
And putting out the fire
The cake bakes
Oblivious to the smell of burnt cloth
And
Heavy sighs
It's a very good thing
No one is awake
If only they stay that way
And she dances again, making orange juice out of a can
A fresh can!
And realio trulio coffee with coffee beans in it
And she dances out to the garden
To pick the early azaleas and the Solomon's Seal
The violets and dandelions
And the primroses that haven't died yet
She finishes with the orange juice,
With the coffee,
And puts the flowers in a cup
And then it's only to wait for the cake
She dances 'round the kitchen with cherry pie filling in her ears and
On her shirt and
Flour in her hair and
Coffee on her face
She washes the dishes while she waits
And puts the spatula in the dishwasher
With the spoon and the beater
Puts the mixing bowl on the rack to dry
And tucks the vanilla back in the cupboard
She sends away the eggs and sweeps the flour off the floor
She hides the butter and the milk away in the safe
Refrigerator
And she dances the sugar back
Into the sugar bowl
And then the timer
b
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She pokes in a fork
And
The cake is done
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