Pressing the tops of cupcakes into bright green coconut
My hands are smaller and more boyish than hers,
Holidays past, rife with anxiety and waiting for everyone to arrive
left the mornings to us alone
to practice flour-based rituals
to be liberal with sugar and butter
to paste together too-warm crust
to gripe at each other in an ancient language
shove things under heavy furniture
stuff miscellaneous into other miscellaneous.
And now my hands, which look nothing like hers,
are dotted in green.
The coloring always sticks to me longer and I've never known why.
Scrubbing it off takes days.
Such a stupid ritual
and it's mine.
NaPoWriMo's featured poet/poem is brilliant today, by the way. You should read it.