Juliet Cook

ADORNMENT

Knives stuck out of everything,
ready to be used.

Small bowls of pale icing.
Edible glitter.
Delicate candy stars.
Tiny silver balls
like the earrings my sisters wore.

At first, I tried to ignore
those knives; kept my eyes
on the tines as they imprinted
yielding dough.

Mine was another abstract series
some might label botched results.
I might call small mutants. A different kind of before & after. Squirmy tentacles somewhere in the midst of dry ingredients.
A new definition of zest.

When I finally seized the knife,
I didn't spread my pale icing neatly.
My grip was so jerky and quirky
and I was just warming up.
Exorcising my wrists;
twitching bitter bits
of lemon rind. Sour sparks
twinkling under the tongue.

The oven light was on; kept my eyes
keened upon the silver tray.
I watched sweet spheres flatten
into crisp circles. In the glass pane,
I saw my face out of focus,
hanging sallow as an overshadowed moon;
a crude juxtaposition to the smooth
golden cookies lined up like simulacrums of simultaneous, semi-identical transformation.

Sour sparks became flames thrashing out of my mouth.
Nipples hardened into spiked lemon drops.
Lemon-glazed clavicles burst from my skin.