by Douglas Gilbert
My cake can not rise
in clouds of dust and joy
if you do not sprinkle
your magical flour
into my buttered pan.
When we’re really cooking together
the love gets hot without an oven, but
there is no more butter on my toast,
and I can not raise a toast with wine
to you my love, because you took
the last stick of frozen butter.
You, my woman, left me
with every door slammed shut
deflating all the perfect soufflés.