Gathering in the living room for wine on Christmas Eve –
coughing, moving chairs at commercials. I would have started baking
three days ago, mom says, in a monotone.
At the stove, I'm already scorching the second batch, remembering the
tune Rick made up, the way he whistled it naked. Cookie sheet's warped;
sifter's missing a handle. Puppy trips mom near the bathroom. Jesus, she hoots. Can't someone do something with
I drive to 7-11 to buy more flour, puppy in my lap. On his cell Rick
says his manic brother showed up – spun a web in the corner
of the living room. His mother's crying and drinking after a year dry.
He tells me we should get married, move to Mexico, become Buddhists.
I say, inhaling puppy’s breath in the cold car, snow falling
Meg Pokrass lives in San Francisco with her husband and daughter. Her
work has appeared or is forthcoming in 971 Menu, The Rose and Thorn,
Eclectica, elimae, SmokeLong Quarterly,
To link to this story directly: http://wigleaf.com/200808baking.htm
Photo on page main page courtesy
of View of the World.
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