I am eating this cake the way I did as a child
Layer by layer the crushed prunes between crumbly
cake a recipe my mother had from hers
The black & the white of it
Longing & regret seven layers thick
An Easter tradition the same for generations.
I have long ago put aside the images of thatched roofs
Swept wood floors and purple flowers in mason jars
But these crumbs I sweep from the table push them back
Into my quiet mind like an old photo ragged from handling.
If I turn now I would meet my great grandfather
for the first time
Moustached and tired but ready for a good long story
His wife laughing tearful by our plentitude
her hair falling from tight braid I stare too long
at her square fingers upon smooth table & they both disappear.
In my mother’s pantry was a jar of jam made
by her late mother
that she refused to eat It was the colour of garnets
& Sweet I am sure, but too late for tasting &
Too hard to open.
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