The Cake

I blend
two sticks of butter,
the real kind,
and three cups of sugar
for about ten minutes,
or until my arm is tired.
I add
five eggs, one at a time,
and beat
their round heads
into a yellow pulp.
I alternate
adding buttermilk and flour
into the sticky batter,
scraping the sides,
still beating,
like my knee
when I hit a dog with my bike,
fell off and Dad picked
out the embedded gravel,
squeezed the skin
together, and taped
it closed because doctors
were expensive.
I fold
in Madagascar vanilla,
sniffing scents
of an African island,
before spooning
it into a lightly-greased
pan, a wedding gift
from a now-deceased Aunt.
I bake,
wait for an hour,
stab it with a stick,
actually a wooden skewer,
and poke it after another
fifteen minutes.
I remove
it from the oven,
cool it ten minutes
and then flip
it out on the rack.
I cut
the buttery slices,
overlapping each wedge
like dewy cheeks
pressed together
in a dance on my grandmother’s
floral Limoges plate.

© 2011 Kim King


About k2king

Poeming to save myself
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