Patricia for Winter

Once whole cherry
pie wet with knuckles
pressed to crust

careful in the
kitchen,
bowls crooked

in dishwater and
silverware glints
with promise of

tomorrow’s tasks:
our pistachio ice
cream and key lime whip,

your hands purple
with longing, ever
green on the terrace

bent to bricks
in a straw hat,
your back to

fresh labor
in daffodils, flashes
of your laughter

or the radio
knobs twisting
as our arms

bare to air—
You teach me to stay up
late and study snowflakes

for their delicate
bones press the
pavement

and we skate
the floorboards
in wool socks

You say at
this hour the
torrent is bright

and the skyline
is silent, but
just a second

this thud of
blue ice against
the panes

might melt to the
screech of a
signal, red

peppers dangling
bright from the
eaves, you spin

and release me
right as the chords
polish melody

pastry shell rises
and holds
your timing.

The one
trick you taught
me: to keep
your stove warm

when absence
scrapes as
spoons do
the empty plate

*

Sofia Bagdade is a poet from New York City. Her work appears in The Shore, Red Weather, and The Basilisk Tree. She finds joy in smooth ink, orange light, and French Bulldogs.