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I lie inside my shiny jar,
a glass that once held sherry jam.
My little sisters share the plan
to touch the nubby fingers of the baker.
The sturdy madame placed us here
when children played with wooden spoons
and spilled their voices in the room.
An age ago, she laid us in our cradle.
One by one she baked the breads,
the ginger and the pumpkin loaves,
with honey bubbling on the stove
and lemon scented rinds she softly grated.
To nudge the nestlings from the tree,
one day she’ll have her need of me
to help her set the flavor free
to fly with zesty wings into the batter.
I’ll press against her fingertips.
She’ll steady me with pincers’ grip
and slide me down the toothy grid
when hallelujah - how the rind shall scatter!
And still one ragged question goads
my patience: after all the breads
she bakes before her final breath,
what if I’m left, so willing, so forsaken?
Susan Weber
