You can have your cake --
and eat it, too!
My mother let me lick
the electric mixer
whir of spinning bliss
tongue between prongs --
once it stopped.
She would slop a cloud
of icing onto the cake
and spread it across the top.
Chocolate cliffs rose at Christmas,
Cinderella's dress swirled with vanilla,
coconut tendrils curled
from the Easter bunny's whiskers.
Each cake sits on
bakery shelves
in my memory --
still warm, still moist,
icing smooth and soft.
And so it is with poetry.
Gobs of gelatinous similes
stick to our fingers
as we lick language
from the sides of the bowl.
We sink our teeth
into slice after
stanza.
* This one wasn't a strict form I suppose, but there were restrictions! The poem had to start with a twist on a cliched saying. Then, it had to include the words mother, lick, whir, cloud, and cliffs. This is what I came up with for the exercise. Yum!
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