For my friend, Teresa White
It never happened the way you imagined, celebrity was worth
the loss of stuffed dogs. Sis and I made big news after our
abduction, front page of People Magazine, that Oprah interview.
Gretel was never entirely free of it, her maid-of-honor dress
sized Zero, not an easy accomplishment for a girl with Teutonic
eyes and tightly woven pig-tails. Still the old witch taught us
the merits of binge and purge. For a time, I dated only women
with cauldrons and warty noses, a chin-hair or a mole would start
an itch deep in my hosen. Finally though, I fell in love, comforted
by the stability of a baker's daughter. Her perfume is yeasty,
like the loaves her father bakes; pumpernickel, whenever
we wanted. Auch, you should witness the skills she has
with fondant. Our windows might melt with the first blast
of a summer sun, but if living on love runs out, there is always
the rush of sweet sugar. Did we turn out all right? Ja, there is no
residual terror. Gretchen is expecting; already, there is a cake
in the ovens. I cannot wait to diaper and spank the rump-roast
hiney of our first-born child. Instead of bread crumbs,
my Beloved tosses rose petals before us and they curl
into sunbursts that lead the way out of a dark forest night.
