What was in it, but apples and air,
that cake all the Odesa moms baked
at their dachas? Apple slices, flirting
on magical doughy mattresses.
Ukrainian or not, we are all made
with a tinge of sweetness. Our memories
cannot imagine war. It begins anyway—
explosions, more real than any kitchen.
People ask you: What was that recipe for living?
My mom says: Sometimes there were cherries
instead of apples. Yes, children’s glossy eyes
begging the grownups: When is it cake time?
But what alchemy invites sugar and flour
to cohere into honeyed warmth? What
undoes the protective layers? Was war
mixed into our recipe from the beginning?
You had to run. You stuffed the mute idea
of the cake into your emergency bag. Only
apples and air, but now it weighs like a life,
and grownups are asking: Where do you think
you are going with that cake?
Immortal friend, stranger,
don’t answer them.
