Go with God, little fritter, tiny apple crisp,
my heart, my flour, sifted
and eggs I separate with my own fingers.
My layers of cake, my surrender, you, whose core
never sticks to the knife, and me, still
without a trivet or matching oven mitts.

Go with God, brownie, the batter
I fold with a wooden spoon
until the lumps are smooth,
the bowl’s bell edges evenly covered,
and the wooden spoon tastes
as it ever did in kitchens,
at the feet, the aproned waists of all mothers.

Little army of muffins, my bread loaves,
my victories, Go with God
in the heated dark, where you rise or you fall,
but for faith. I am still
in the kitchen, these Schrödinger moments,
when all things are possible
until the timer reminds us – a burn,
a delight, something to devour.