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.
©️ Obol, 2018.
