Genny lived next door
and made cupcakes sometimes
that we could smell in the middle of the day.
Our feet would come off the ground a bit
and we’d
float,
cartoonish,
noses up and eyes closed,
pulled in somnolent faith along an invisible rope
that painted our insides with
the light blue colors of an old, paint-flaking house
where she was forever framed in the glass of
her kitchen window. (please always have a
window in your kitchen
right there over the sink.)
Glass so old it sagged from time
and its own weight
until everything you saw through it looked uncertain
and underwater like a mute memory
more than the real, wrinkled face
that smiled nonetheless across
that little space between the houses
on a day that swung too high and short
even in the morning.
Genny lived next door and
made cupcakes that smelled so good
that our feet came off the ground
and our toes
– just
– brushed
the grass
and left wavy little trails all the way to her kitchen
where we woke up with crumbs
and blessings on our lips
and a little sunlit spot
that took the place of
knowing how we got there.
Andy Havens 