Cookie Dough

there were always rules:
never eat raw
don’t lick your fingers 

but w/ age came others:
you can have a cookie
if you run this morning
you can have a taste
if you run an extra mile
you can at least smell
them baking  

molding dough into
what others expect
it to become buttery
& soft & somehow gentle
in worn, calloused hands  

pour chocolate chips
careful not to lose
the sense of wonder
before the rules
went from protecting
to punishing

Egg Yolks

separate & stir
blend w/ sugar
until you don’t
recognize them
velvety then fluffy
transformation
we’re all told
to aspire to  

French Toast

I open blinds
as you sleep
scrubbing last night’s
stains from the counter
tomato slime & angry words
congeal in a clogged sink
& it’s so easy to scrub
away, pretend this
did not happen 

I mix batter, dipping
flimsy Wonder bread
in cinnamon & egg yolks
revel in how the toast
simmers in butter until
it chars, leaving one side
blackened, the other pale
anemic, lifeless  

You drown your now-cold
French toast in syrup,
the fake kind with maple flavor
that’s supposed to convince us
it’s real, that’s supposed to hide
our continuous charade

Author’s Biography

Erin Jamieson’s writing has been published in over eighty literary magazines, including two Pushcart Prize nominations. She is the author of four poetry chapbooks,  including Fairytales (Bottle Cap Press. Her debut novel (Sky of Ashes, Land of Dreams) was published by Type Eighteen Books.