by Dorsía Smith Silva
Cake for dinner?
Why not, I ponder
as I toss the pre-packaged spaghetti
back into the plastic container and
maneuver it into the refrigerator.
Who wouldn’t want to rest their tongue
on the fragrance of poised chocolate embers
on dotted layers of cinnamon-sugared crust.
There is something about destroying caution,
breaking the rules of lovely engagement.
Oh, the appetite of change—
to make it appear,
to make it fuel what is so often unimagined.
The secret name of instinct
travels to my fork like
an unfolding hurrying down.
The candied morsels vanish
moment by moment until
there’s nothing left to devour.
I salvage the last crumbs
like stepping into a hidden garden,
a newfound Alice in a palace of dreams.
