bittersweet flavor
my dad obsessed over
present at Christmas,
church potlucks, and
political family dinners
a bane on my childhood
in my coming of age
I cut pieces out at midnight
and savored what I swore
I detested
older and farther away
I recalled my mother in the kitchen
stirring a steaming pot
on the phone
alone in my room
What would you like to eat when you come home?
Chocolate Pie.
home for a week
I watch my mother’s hands stir ingredients
like it is the first time
like I am a child
discovering speech
across the kitchen
under the pale light
I witness creation
and the creator
a steady force
cooking in the morning
at 6:30 in the evening
after work and
before sunrise
practiced creations
made by hands that hurt
hands that ached
hands that every medication
tried to numb
the final product
forever free from the ruins of toil
and the tasting of buried grief
at my car waiting to leave
desperate to stay
Don’t you want to take some with you when you go back?
the pie is wrapped up
packaged gently
like an organ
like a part
her hands
palm up before me
tense from the triple effort
needed to use them
an offering
of all she cannot give
and all she cannot say—
of all she wants for me
and all she sees in me
meeting her eyes
I say sure
she says okay
By Kallen Mohr