Sigrid Bergie Feliciano

The hot sweet smell
of baking
that holds your love.
The ooze of lard
that sexes up your taste buds.

Kiss, smack,
fold, tuck
the pie.

Your kitchen, my friend,
Dances with mothering.
Your mother,
your mother’s mother,
even your lover who was mothered.
He loves your pies.

He swells up
obstinate with maleness
as your oven puckers the pies
and exhales his bulge.

For him,
Your hands topple into chocolate cream
or green tart apple,
pear or blueberry,
pecan or sesame walnut,
maple sugar or strawberry.
Pumpkin sweet potato.

Your fair hands.
There are such dreams in them.

Your fingers flutter,
lard crumbs linger.
Does his deep pink tongue
devour your lavish love?

Is the bittersweet salt
of your tears,
just a condiment?

In deep love, there is
A sad silence. My tear has
No sound. Where are you?

***

I can’t go with you.
Our bed sheet curves with your sleep.
Moonlit husband transit.

For years, it was the same.
The headphones rode your head
As you rode the swivel of your chair.
Manning the controls of your computer,
You were a pilot in space somewhere.

Or you whirled in a trance
Around our kitchen,
Creating a feast out of a mess.

Or you lounged with the lizards
On our backyard deck,
Dreamily surveying your gardens
And your inner landscape.
You were in the zone.

I boomed “TONYYY!!”

Or I sent out a tender “Tonyla.”

Even nudged my lips to your earlobe, “Sweetheart.”

Sometimes you answered. Sometimes not.

And then.
Something new happened.
I didn’t notice it at first.
I don’t know how or why or when or where,
It just happened.

A pattern emerged to my awestruck wonderment.
A trick. A charm.
A name that embraced both endearment & annoyance.

All I have to do is slip its two syllables into my mouth
And blow their magic straight to your ears,
“JACKASS!”

And you say, “WHAAAT?!” Or you say, “Yes, my darling, yes.”
And then we talk. And it is good.