Short Crust
Robert Beveridge
You pick up the mezzaluna, cut
butter into flour, do not understand
the consistency until you realize
someone has already added
the milk. Another pie ruined—
apple, boysenberry, sweet potato.
You bite back a scream, jerk
upright, awake in the NICU.
A plurality of respirators,
so common the sound is perfect
Dolby. You ponder how ingredients
must be added in the proper
order, processed by recipe.
You extend your index finger,
feel that fragile hand grasp it.
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