By Mary Ann Archibald
I see my mother in a pot of fudge,
the hot, heavy pan and rhythmic, wooden spoon.
Smiling and winking in the thickening sweetness
that sucks the air as the spoon comes up for breath
then back again into the heat for another beating.
The round music of anticipation when you dig
your bottom teeth into the hardening sugar
and lick the spoon with your prickly burnt tongue.
It lasts two lifetimes:
One for you.
The other for when she is gone.
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From the Wild: a collection of original poems
http://maryannarchibald.blogspot.ca/p/from-wild.html
