Because I can’t say it I’ll say it
        with food: leafing through
grandmother’s recipes
        handwritten like incantations,
I find one she used to make me
        when I was young; I’d forgotten
how fresh the wild berries would
        burst in my mouth, how a scoop
of vanilla ice cream would melt
        over the golden crust, how
I’d misnamed it not berry
        but faerie pie, & here in ink
is a rough line through the title,
        the new name scrawled above.
As I raid the pantry, plan
        a quick trip to the store,
I picture a time when she too
        was my age & wonder if
she were braver; as I knead dough
        I pray in a whisper, ask her
to help the crust come out right,
        wonder if she’d approve of the mouth
I’m making it for, that girl's lips
        fresh as berries & wild
to burst. So I mix in sugar raw
        as feeling, & I’ll add faeries, too,
if I have to—real faeries, still
        sparkling, & I’ll deliver it still warm
in my hot red-stained hands,
        & I’ll hold it out to you, & for one
candied moment your fingers
        will cover my painted nails
as you take it from me.