Runcible Spoon

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After School


In any kingdom, something grows

and moves in—the sticks of butter stacked

in waxed paper packs in our refrigerator.


My mother baked. A lot. When I think of her,

she is wearing an apron. The avocado

colored counters hold a parade


of rows of brown edged cookies on wire racks,

the darkened pans cooling on the stove.

A ceramic bowl is in the sink, filled


with measuring cups, spoons, and suds.

She will clean up later. Does she know

how much I liked walking in


through the wide screen door,

its solid slap behind me and smelling

butter, sugar, and vanilla?