The oven had preheated, It’s temperature pushing
limits. Her Vanilla Buttercream thighs spreading
on the floured fondant rolled out along the table.
Each contraction rose and fell like the intricacy
of latticework. The piping around her areolas
browning with each thought of the new child sucking
at her breasts. The doctor pressed his finger inside
like a toothpick, and told her it was time.
Sweat dripped from her overbeat brow like
Dotted swiss. Each push mixing, boiling, and
Tempering, until the final flood work.
The baby was taken from the heat between
Her legs like pulled sugar, marbling the red
velvet over its skin with hers.
They used the cornelli lace of her battered
Stomach as a cooling rack and wiped the field
of frosting flowers off its sweet buttered back.
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