Weltschmerz, or
How a Girl Saved the Pie

I was not thankful the morning
The girl listed all the people
She guessed for whom I was thankful.
She guessed everyone right.
I was fine with being wrong.

Despite a friend’s advice not to bake
When having negative thoughts,
I took the chance of ruining
Pumpkin pie.

With grand introduction,
In TV voice, the girl made me
The master chef of my own
Cooking show. I wanted
To smile. I couldn’t. I rolled
The dough, handed her the pin.
She rolled. I measured spice.
We took turns turning
Black spoons over the bowl.

The spices look like skin.
There’s mine, she said, cinnamon.
You’re this one!
Ginger, I clarified.
And Daddy’s here.
Nutmeg.
With pestle and mortar,
We hand-ground cloves
Looking like no one we know.

Stirred, we were a new skin
We couldn’t name.
And joy, buried beneath late November,
Knew I would remember
To tell you here.

24 November 2016
with thanks to Shea

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