Milk.
Two large eggs.
Three ripe bananas, mashed.
I use a fork and I carve them halfway down the middle
The way your friends did to you in the sixth grade
I mash with a fork.
I scoop out your insides.
I crack eggs on the countertop and they spill
Like heads onto pavement,
Emptying dreams and guts and maybe
The salt is not just from the
Bag.
Flour.
Vanilla extract.
More things that need to be mixed
In a big pan that I need two hands to hold
But I also need a hand to mix and
I am caught in a web,
Missing you so much it hurts to think,
It hurts to dream,
It hurts when I lie in bed alone,
So I keep mixing with my two hands.
And I don’t wish for a third hand
I don’t wish for the person attached to that third hand
And I definitely don’t wish for you here with me.
Melted butter, cooled.
Brown sugar.
Two cups of chocolate chips.
One cup of pecans, but I add in two.
You could never eat those with me; you said
You were allergic.
Really you just didn’t like them.
I was never surprised when you lied to me.
Now that you’re gone, I add them in.
To be honest
I always added them in
Anyway.