It has such ease; it holds
its shape like a cat: bonelessly

relaxed. Do I resent it? Its gloss.
How it resists the whip

by loving it. To spread
is to begin negotiations;

it clings to the spoon
like history.

It goes coral-hard in the oven
& waits for morning

when I’ll pick it up & tap
its base & judge it.

Sometimes I think the fact
that I am still alive

is a sign of my own
lack of conviction.