The Cake

I don’t remember the words

we spoke, the smell of you

close, or how early days

with each other were spent.

But I remember the cake. 

The choice I’d had to make

from the Birthday Cookbook

just appeared on a tray: a disco

of lit candles, dolly mixtures

and jelly, scattered like confetti. 

Before your fingers could

no longer hold a spoon, 

they had crafted me 

an igloo, a swimming pool,

and Mother Hubbard’s boot.  

I don’t remember the last

conversation you and I had,

what happened afterwards,

or the things people said.

But I remember the cake.