Non-Erotic PoetryCookiesMy fingers smell of cinnamon
as I bake cookies
for my husband's sons. I know
sugar will not sweeten pain. I know
that when I tell them, when
I tell all of them, all will despise
then cinnamon's rich spice, and
that is what I'm guilty of. I am their flavor-thief—
not wife, not mother, not anything else wrong.
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