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Tasting Grief

When my mother died,

the neighbors brought cakes

to our house, cakes so sweet

and moist the knife buried

itself in every slice I cut.  


I ate lemon pound cake

and cheese cake and

German chocolate cake

covered with coconut pecan

icing evenly spread across the top layer like the casket spray

blanketing my mother’s coffin.


I ate carrot cake and angel

food cake and red velvet

cake slathered with cream cheese frosting, the crimson food color filled the cave

of my mouth like blood.   


I ate and ate. I ate until the cakes made me sick in between the flavor of infinite grief on my taste buds, in between the gut wrenching sorrow I swallowed in every bite, every morsel, every

crumb of moist, airy softness.

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