Gale Thompson
Yellow Frosted Cake

We are muscle flowers in the shape of marzipan.


We are a trick.


We paint comet after comet onto the faces of cakes,


wipe the nebulae off of our fingers, give them names,


call it assemblage. Call it cross-indexing.


It is too early for fondant.




Whitewash makes me hungry. Astronomy does too.


Wherever we are it is soggy. Wherever I am there are mouthfuls.


Last night I dreamed I made you soup in a steel kitchen.


I sat on your floor and glowed.



There is too much in our gold, planetary bodies.


There’s no keeping it down, the rest of us pinpricks.


Today there are instincts ingrained in my knuckles.


Today they are pummeled white.


In the end there are these two legs crowing


under these two socks


and the whole world is fasting.