Sunday Biscotti

I bake cookies
roll up my sleeves
rotate the handle as I sift
flour, salt, baking soda

I whisk the eggs
add sugar, and vanilla, craving
as always to stir myself into
the sweet liquid

I knead dough
hair slipping into my eyes
feet bare against cold
Mexican tiles

I listen to the rain on the patio
watch the way one drop collects
others as it slips
along the glass

I chop semisweet chocolate
and toast sheets of hazelnuts
bearing down as I stir, I watch
the flour dissipate into a sticky paste

I roll the dough into logs
paint them generously with
lightly beaten egg
and slide them into the oven

I watch a couple running
hand in hand through the rain

I lick the bowl, the whisk,
the wooden spoon,
I wash the measuring cups
and wipe down the surfaces

Putting my hands against
the warmth of the oven,
I cry for all that I love
and have left behind.

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