"dropping" by Fabio Sassi
Dana Murphy | Tracy Chapman's Coffee Cake
After Alice Walker’s Gathering Blossoms Under Fire
Somewhere in the 1990s, the oven is warming up.
Fingers, callus thick as allspice berries dried in the sun,
gather the bowl,
merge batter with lemon peel grated close to the pith,
chop apricots and figs dried sweet
as a song her mother used to sing on Midwest winter nights.
The contralto of a dream rising slowly.
Sweet-bitter surrender.
Shame leavening to goldenness.
Firm and ready as a young woman’s song
deepening in the finally of an old woman’s heart.
Honey spools down from the spoon generously
and even its last final spin is savored.
Hair anointed with rosewater, legs with jeans worn soft.
All that remains is a blanket of waxed parchment for nestling.
Ribbons call from a scrap bag in the closet down the hall.
Be ladylike, for once,
a piece of purple cloth whispers.
Leaves and petals rustle on an old church dress.
Faint outlines of peroxide limn faded blood blooms.
Humming, lifting just one corner of the sound,
she ties her mother’s favorite color
around the still warm heart of the cake,
smiles as fingers embrace her keys,
feet slip into boots.
Cake under one arm, she is running to her car,
to her lover, dark as her mother—stomach moaning.
Somewhere in the 1990s, the oven is warming up.
Fingers, callus thick as allspice berries dried in the sun,
gather the bowl,
merge batter with lemon peel grated close to the pith,
chop apricots and figs dried sweet
as a song her mother used to sing on Midwest winter nights.
The contralto of a dream rising slowly.
Sweet-bitter surrender.
Shame leavening to goldenness.
Firm and ready as a young woman’s song
deepening in the finally of an old woman’s heart.
Honey spools down from the spoon generously
and even its last final spin is savored.
Hair anointed with rosewater, legs with jeans worn soft.
All that remains is a blanket of waxed parchment for nestling.
Ribbons call from a scrap bag in the closet down the hall.
Be ladylike, for once,
a piece of purple cloth whispers.
Leaves and petals rustle on an old church dress.
Faint outlines of peroxide limn faded blood blooms.
Humming, lifting just one corner of the sound,
she ties her mother’s favorite color
around the still warm heart of the cake,
smiles as fingers embrace her keys,
feet slip into boots.
Cake under one arm, she is running to her car,
to her lover, dark as her mother—stomach moaning.
Dana Murphy lives in California. Her writing has appeared or is forthcoming in carte blanche magazine, The 2River View, Lily Poetry Review, and Obsidian: Literature & Arts in the African Diaspora. In 2024–25, she is a Fellow at the Stanford Humanities Center.
Fabio Sassi is a photographer and acrylic artist. He enjoys imperfections, and reframing the ordinary in his artwork. Fabio lives in Bologna, Italy and his work can be viewed at https://fabiosassi.foliohd.com
