banana bread: the life i’ve always wanted
by Quayle McKay
she is circumstantial in her opulence.
when the flies arrive, it is time
to unsheathe your wooden spoon,
adorn the kitchen counter with a glass bowl
to take that aged fruit from where
it’s been rotting a hole through the center
of your chest.
the oven is preheated. it whispers and
the eggs are cracked in response. stir
until it hurts
until it doesn’t anymore.
BANANA BREAD, my fair lady who
hasn't visited in years;
queen of a far-off land where
everything is good and true and
baked at 350 degrees.
I made plans to visit but
the dust settled
and the kitchen linoleum got cold.
a lovely sentiment
hangs loose in the air. it goes:
I am willing to spend an hour in a house that’s never clean
making banana bread for you.
I will wash every dish until it shines
cast the flies from where they congregate
on the rotting husks of fruit all strewn about the place.
I will try
to make a world worth living in.
will you lick
the spoon?