Molten Poetry

Let it burn.

The path to Hell
is forked like the
tail of the silver-tongued
devil.

She revels…

amidst the cuts
and crumbs and
licks icing from her
thumbs,

one pass,
simultaneous,
with a split-lick

hiss.

I’m still numb to the cut,
a quarter-piece lost
to the silver-tongued
cake knife

that

she brought.

Do cakes call their
toppings “icing” because
the baker’s last touch
is so damned cold?

I think, once divided,
the cake will never know.


©️ 2018.

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