every time you eat a hazelnut cookie,
that I pressed down and made flat with my thumb.
Flour presses into the folds of my apron
at different angles to cut the
hourglass shape you imagine me
Shove part of my ideas into unbearable Fahrenheit
to rise and take the shape
-predicted by my Zias-
and take me to work.
Salt to taste. Mouths-to-mouths.
There are so many ways to say,
roll me out. Onto a counter.
time I create a new one, I think it’s the end of my previous life.
Poor memory, it burns away
(in batches, of course).
My friend says he has a few baristas in the neighborhood,
that boost his confidence.
Espresso shot. Flirt. Sad energy or necessary?
Perhaps necessary to see someone write your name so perfect on a cup.
I watched a movie about a lawyer-turned-baker and she walked around
the screen with a bowl of batter on her hip like a goddess,
and I hate that movies make cookies the devil and the ultimate
and that she had no body odor,
just beautiful tattoos that glistened under the bakery lights,
as she perfected everyone’s orders and hearts,
except the interest of her lust.
Of course. Of course.