Copyright © 2020 Shay Cook. All rights reserved.

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.