Fasting, I recall Grandmother’s sour cream bundt cake,
repress yellow-white crumb tender in brown baked crust,
smother fudgy frost draped over ring, tassels dripped to plate
while in the center an inch-deep pool of chocolate collects,
not quite melted by the drive across the Mojave in an old Ford
to visit and bring baked treats to ensure she’s remembered
on holidays and birthdays and long lonely days across the desert,
knowing that food fills spaces we might otherwise forget
when our will and wont to go without reaching out are crumbled
by the plate offering one more slice of sour cream bundt cake.
written for dVerse Poet’s Pub prompt.