Written by Gabriella Troy
Art by Anete Lusina
Goo drips down my hands;
another bad decision
to mash bananas with my fists—
I hate bananas.
Bananas are slimy and stringy
and pockmarked with decay;
they feel like my insides
after my cat passed away.
I’m a mess
and my disaster has spewed to contaminate
the mixing bowl sans spoon
and the counter, now white.
At least i can pretend
to be civilized:
the mixing bowl with a spatula
has produced something like muffin formula.
My foot tap-taps in conspicuous impatience:
the mixing bowl is back to plain metal
and the counter is sparkling already
so I watch the muffins rise.
I torture myself
with vision blinded by the crummy oven door
and thoughts of unworthy muffins—
they looked lumpy in the tin.
But a sweet aroma wafts through the door
and my family approaches as the timer
whittles away my uncertainty:
I will serve a scrumptious breakfast.
A table for four or six or fourteen
and the same amount of smiles
as cinnamon-sugar (and banana) hits their tongues
finally makes the sun rise within me.
I’m sorry for my disrespect:
within muffins you’re perfect
and I’m happier with you under my nails.