Tuesday, July 31, 2018


I baked myself a cake
the way you would have.

I didn't realize what I was doing at first,
as I grated the beets,
purple juices staining my hands.

I remember the first time you made it;
we were both amazed by the pink batter,
and equally as surprised when it came out of the oven
a different colour, no pink remaining.

I thought of that as I pulled my own cake out,
chocolate brown and steaming.

As I shook the rainbow sprinkles over top,
I realized I was mothering myself;
replacing your absence with an unconscious recreation of
birthdays past.


Who am I to you now -

A cake you painstakingly baked,
only to pull it out of the oven and see it didn't come out
as you expected;
all the pink gone?