I do not miss my mother as much as I do at Easter.
I wish she’d resurrect
Because I really need to know her secret
For getting the lamb cake out of its stupid cast iron mold.
All I get are busted bits of cake.
Spine in tatters,
Half a spongy, yellow rib cage.
Mom got a newborn lamb every Easter,
while I get mutton.
But bless her
She took her secret with her to Heaven,
Leaving me with crumbs.
Oh, how I want to make some sort of pun about cookies crumbling, except this poem is about cake.
And yes, I’ve seasoned the cast iron with oil. I seriously don’t know how she managed to get a whole freaking cake out of the mold, while I always get two messy halves.