Nothing says holiday spirit like a blood-filled cake.
Many Happy Returns
I grip the edge of the sink and reason
with my reflection, telling it, You know better.
You can’t have that blood-filled cake, you bastard.
Well. My reflection can say all it wants,
but I did the cooking and I’ll do the eating.
You don’t know everything. God.
I settle down at the small, oval table,
the one shaped like my mother’s soft head.
I pull the cake and knife toward me.
As I take the first bite, red blurts out
of my mouth, soaking my chin and shirt.
I smile into the warmth, the saltiness.