The bakery
All glass and light
Awaits us at the end of the day
We point with trembling fingers
Until the sleepy lady
Cradles a full bag
As a final indulgence
We peer into the basket
That sits atop the counter
It is filled with colossal slabs of wedding cake
Sliced, chopped, severed, hacked and wrapped in plastic
After waiting unclaimed by mothers-in-law
We greedily root around
Searching for the biggest pieces
Weighing, eyeing, measuring
The ones with the most frosting
Or letters of the bride’s name
Most coveted
We fill our bellies with carved up dreams
Never realizing we are masticating someone else’s sorrow
Their broken promises our sustenance
© 2003 Gary Cozine
Joy School
(for Joseph Cornell)
by Christine Hamm
Why is it that when people speak of
joy
or paint its substance,
the canvas is a vast
blue sky or an acre of snow,
broken
maybe by a few black boughs.
My joy teaches me small:
tiny and dark with delicate moving parts
in the shadows,
like the ripple of a salmon gill
under the river
or a small vintage machine
with obscure purpose and
gears whirring.
My joy is not made in the huge
bright handclap of God.
It is made by tiny mice paws
in the mud. It is made of straw
and teeth,
with a few
white
feathers.
© 2003 Christine Hamm
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