The proof is in the pudding or mud pie
my big sister is patting with her hands
in the speckled-enamel dishpan so wide
it hides her spindly seven-year-old lap
and knees but not the tenacity displayed
by her jaw—this would be the perfect batch
to try out on the chief taster—Hey,
that's me, chubby two, clutching a wooden spoon,
dreaming of a sample after it bakes
on the discarded hot plate in our playroom
we raked clean under the pines behind the garage
to rehearse sand and dirt menus.
Mama had us dolled up in smocked dresses,
frilly socks and patent leather, chosen
to promote the fairy tale, "domesticity"
and captured in a black and white—frozen
by the old Kodak box, one of the few pleasures
she allowed herself before the factory closed
and our brother was born. Scoops and measures
of her womanhood had been stolen or poured out
to heartaches, but two girls were her treasures.
She knew we would some day have houses, hurts,
frozen moments and marriages to sift through,
but she could prepare us—to eat a little dirt.
