PS Cottier

Politician’s Birthday Cake, Florida, 1965

Jill-in-the-cake, she waits, hermit crab in cardboard shell inside thin icing. She smells faint fire of too many candles; ears pick up obsequious tinkles of laughter. Smallest Matryoshka, curled over and into herself in cake-womb, body ribboned by expectation, waiting to uncurl herself into room. Her bikini moistens under her breasts, confined in oubliette of quasi-cake, and now, now, she hears the final you of the Birthday song and up she jumps, top-hat of cake swings to one side. Venus comes from the pink-icing-shell, floating above the sea of eyes that lick at her breasts like one huge tongue at Mom’s near-forgotten mixing spoon.

PS Cottier

This is the second part of my prose poem about cake. One more to go next week. The publication details appear in the last post on March 12th. Somehow this part of my epic cake poem seems particularly timely.

That Venus above has strapping feet, by the way.