Her fingerprints left cinnamon on everything she touched
especially in the morning. The cabinets, their door pulls
the faucet, the counter, the white face of the boy on the box of Farina.
On his cardboard pedestal, his porcelain and rose covered in cinnamon
mocked me. He looked like a pastry of a boy. He glowed the color of fresh-cut
azaleas, heavy with self-import. Heavy as white-cake and buttermilk.
I was more like the Farina he silver-spooned into his peony of a mouth
after she added the cinnamon and sugar. She would to tell me I was blonde
when I was a baby. Blonde as dandelion seeds blowing in the wind.
*This poem is featured in August 2014’s The Acentos Review