Ars Poetica in My Kitchen

My mother always measured ingredients

          precisely, leveling off each scoop

of flour or sugar. I toss in extra

                    vanilla, add nutmeg where none

          is written, set a timer if I remember.

                    I jab a plastic knife into the center

of the sticky, sweet sponge & hope

          it slips back out clean. Frosting

                    covers a flurry of errors. Sprinkles,

          too, can be sacred. The cake

doesn’t know how it was supposed

                    to turn out & neither will

          the ones who eat it.