is making biscuits in the morning just
for myself worth it
                                 kneading in the butter
filling the kitchen           with godly golden
                                 crumble smell
breaking open like a confession
                                 steam gasping into the air
apron covered in floury
                                 handprints           not caring
that it’s hot in the kitchen I will
                                 say of course           and more

                                 and then opening           the jam
last summer’s Michigan blueberry
                                 the near-black nectar smothering
licking my fingers
                                 I can live with the softness
padding my ribs for this           the crumbs
                                 all over the sticky counter
like waking up in the bed of the one I love
                                      a trail      of my clothes set loose
across the floor
                                 unconcerned if it’s messy
the answer is yes           and please