The Cake Mixture
By Leah Larwood
After Edip Cansever
a woman searching for
emptiness of being
creams butter and
sugar in a mixing bowl
one, two, three yolks
and a tiny piece of shell
she leaves the shell
a moth enters the room
she adds the coldness
of milk and evening air
echoes of mothers
calling their children
the darkness in the room
she places in the bowl
conversations from her body
muffled like folded egg whites
loud edges of dreams
a French nursery rhyme
she makes a well and places
rubble from her mind
her shadow
counting each precious breath
she peers at the purple sky
drops an eclipse in the batter
the cake mixture puffs
sighs just a little
then a deafening calm.
yet the woman keeps adding things.
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