From the kitchen, the smell of rising dough.
Then, patience as a childhood exercise:
Level with the counter, a child’s dark eyes
fix on sweet rolls cooled on cross wire chrome, though
these ones are meant, as the mother’s sharp clucks
declare, for other homes: a dozen for
the widowed pastor’s wife who lives next door,
and the jolly bachelor uncle who plucks
melancholy tunes on the jumping flea.
And still more of the fresh baked golden dozens
to in-laws, aunts, first and second cousins
because the air is sweet and days are free.
A dozen for the church organist whose hand
keeps a clipped lawn, a sparkling white-washed house;
and for the husband who cares for a spouse
vanished into dementia’s neverland.
Each batch reaches its designated door
delivered by the girl with dark bright eyes.
A quiet knock and sweet-wafting baked surprise
leave each house roomier, brighter than before.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 24, Issue 3.
Derek N. Otsuji is the author of The Kitchen of Small Hours (SIU Press, 2021). Recent work has appeared in 32 Poems, Beloit Poetry Journal, Crazyhorse, The Southern Review, and The Threepenny Review.
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