I made peanut butter cookies for you.
I had been planning them for a week
In my head, ticking off the items
In a checklist of gathered love,
And oats, I love oat cookies, I thought very highly
Of oat cookies.
The day before your birthday, I was seized
I was seized by lethargy and I confess,
The day went by, the cookies remained unbaked.
Somewhere the culinary devil poked me
I was hesitating, wondering how you would
Like my cookies.
I worried, what would you say,
How would I give them to you? What if
What if I didn’t give them-
But, I could almost see you bite into one
Your mouth full of crumbs as you mumble
‘That it tastes great’.
I stirred the butter, the flour,
Almost out of vanilla essence, I noted
My mind drifting to the problems of
Whether I should gift you cookies.
What if you thought it too much?
I never made good in the kitchen,
Would I come off as overbearing?
Then I think, of the damage between us,
The gap between us
till I feel only you can go further
Not nearer, we have kept our friendship
On ventilators, begging for euthanasia.
Like the old grandmothers you keep barely breathing
To not demolish your childhood even,
Even when she despairs in senile pain,
We drag our carcasses in the dust.
The microwave dings, the cookies are baked.
I pull out the tray with careful ease,
My nose infused with such a glorious smell
Of nutty butter and the crunch of oats on
The chewy warm biscuits already,
Flooding my tongue, and I can hear your smile
Till, I recall, you are allergic to peanuts,