The Cake Mixture

by Leah Larwood

After Edip Cansever

 

a woman searching for
emptiness of being

creams butter and
sugar in a mixing bowl

one, two, three yolks
and a tiny piece of shell

she leaves the shell
a moth enters the room

she adds the coldness
of milk and evening air

echoes of mothers
calling their children

the darkness in the room
she places in the bowl

conversations from her body
muffled like folded egg whites

loud edges of dreams
a French nursery rhyme

she makes a well and places
rubble from her mind

her shadow
counting each precious breath

she peers at the purple sky
drops an eclipse in the batter

the cake mixture puffs
sighs just a little

then a deafening calm.
yet the woman keeps adding things.