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