NaPoWriMo 2.3

Lamb Cake

I do not miss my mother as much as I do at Easter.
I wish she’d resurrect
-Like Jesus-
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.
Ears akimbo,
Spine in tatters,
Half a spongy, yellow rib cage.
Mom got a newborn lamb every Easter,
while I get mutton.
But bless her
-Like Jesus-
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.

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