They come swaddled in nests of sugar
So thick, one swift intake of eager breath
And it coats your tongue and throat
Like thick paint.
I remember the day I made beignets for you;
I promised they would bring Decatur Street home.
It was mother’s day.
The earthy smell of yeast permeated the air, and
Flour rose in cakey mists.
The dough shaped itself to my hands,
Molded clay seeming to breathe in the
Rhythm of patient kneading.
It feathered up, supported by warm, bubbling air,
Like that flowing through a saxophone,
And your smile accompanied me as our knives
Dragged through it, fleshy edges coarsely
Pulling apart, pliant but reluctant, like muscle.
Once the board was littered with pale squares,
Like bolts of lacy cloth,
And the oil was glowing on the intense flame of the stove,
I dropped them in and watched
As they blossomed into flexible mounds,
Droplets of golden topaz,
But within, they were arched temples of sugar,
And they dissolved on your tongue when
You pulled apart the tender white flakes.