I.
two of the kitchen lights burned out & there was only
one dangling by the chord above the counter. he opened the
two slices of bread like a bible. margarine on each page.
i watched dad & he said, "this is it & then we're going to bed."
holding the metal knife to spread a layer of cinnamon 
& then sugar-- margarine holds it all together. he let
me eat under the covers & dropped the beer bottle caps
to the carpet. like sand between the bed sheets. 
"don't tell mom" & i peeled the crust off the mattress
onto the bedroom floor. the inner bark of trees:
the sugar cane growing into grandfather's walking stick.
the embalming begins; learned from mummies, cinnamon 
under eyelids; rubbed into skin. 
II.
under fingernails-- sweet grit; a dusting on the windowsill
where the song birds get spice spackled on their wings.
i'm rummaging under my bed for a kitchen counter-- a necklace
of ants meandering beneath front door. "and then we're going
to bed" & the posts are made of cinnamon sticks & the sugar 
is still in the blue bag by the coffee machine. i eat a sandwich 
at my desk by a string of christmas lights pinned to my wall. 
sixteen shadows & bulbs made of margarine. looking for
the metal knife to turn the bible pages back to genesis 
where the first cinnamon bark was harvest from the laurel tree.
where snake turned to sugar in my hands. where the 
last light when out above the kitchen counter. where sappho 
knew cinnamon as cassia & slipped it into a poem or two;
guarded by winged serpents beside myrrh trees & laudanum bloom.