Ginger Cake

The cool, the shadowy hour, supper

bubbling in the upstairs pan, winter

flicking soft flakes at the pane.

Our Father, who art in heaven . . .

I’m the little boy who knows

the last inch of my room

and mother’s kitchen—I finish

my sister’s sentences.

I read the books that once were read

to me: a girl who sings, high

in her tower, braiding her heavy hair;

a long oven, big as a witch.

Whatever falls upon our tongues

we speak here, and then forget.

Only our two thin cats decline

to talk, having tongues like spoons

to scoop the milk, to swallow all

their idle vowels down with it,

swallowing all they could tell

of this tale, and what comes next:

How our pale, humble-hearted

Christ stoops to extend his hand,

how a grinning hag offers a bit

of ginger cake, and I take it.