Rebecca L Hilliker
Holiday
Pumped full of steroids
my mother sweats over pecan pies
in her immaculate kitchen.
Everything is so yellow
it hurts, the mixer whirring
to life, the science
of it exhausting.
We move around each other
like planets. I am
a dumb star, revolving.
Sugar dissolves into the slick
of her forehead, the soft machine
of her body working itself
in, folding and refolding.
I press a fork
into tender crust, grateful
for the direction, the metal
in my hand.
