My heart is like dough,
Kneaded in my lover’s palm;
She accentuates rough circles,
Pastry blended from milk,
Flour, and eggs from a creel
Usually used for mackerel.
It seems unreal sometimes,
The whims of her patterns
Trimmed with a wheel,
The serrating circularity
Of steel brings its own
Clarity as the arteries
Are filled with peaches,
Mango custard on weekends,
Pink lady in the week;
Toppings are dessications.
In a shop window, a daily
Celebration of my Pâtissière’s
Abundant, unending art.

There’s a price tag beside
The final baked product,
For it’s likely to crumble
If left uncared for,
And if dropped to the floor
Things fall apart.