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?