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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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