When my mother makes gingerbread cookies,
that dough is stretched so thin.
Partially because it's the one dough
I don't keep hacking gobs of. Partially
because no one likes a fat ginger kid.
Too tough. The front teeth sting.
The dough is stretched so thin.
I watch her--my mother--
work that rolling pin over and over,
she shoves her heft into the countertop.
I try to do it myself, but I can never get it like she can--
even though I'm supposed to be the spry one.
(Jillian Michaels, you know?)
Stretched so thin.
(I'm feeling stretched so thin,
which isn't new.
But I do it to fill all the spaces with love.
Real-ace love: chewy and substantial.
Fill all the spaces.)
You cut out a little boy, and you paint him over
with the milk brush, and you stick him
cinnamon drop buttons.
He's on the rack with his brothers. You pray
you won't burn anything.
If you can help it. (Maybe even if you can't.)
The once-flat sheet is mangled with holes.
She smashes it
into a lump. Re-throw, re-roll, re-thin.