I am broken and disjunct struck dumb
in cold kitchen with no heart.
The spot on tart-sweet of her apple
won’t greet the burnished maples.
Not this fall.
No taut crusts cut and rolled in dusky
morning hours while we slept
rock-like cranking out
nutmeg and clove-addled dreams.
under warm blankets of cold comfort.
crisco cans and pyrex tins marked
sunday like a waxing crescent.
What now, Barb?
I lack the exactitude to
carry on your craft.
My pumpkin curdles to repellent chunks.
My crust is stubborn and overworked.
My graceless fingers rip and poke
what you coaxed instantly to perfection.
The sweetness you dotted and dusted
And I’d trade anything at all
for one more bite.