Built to Bake, Born to Feel

I baked a cake while she learned to speak,

her voice unfurling in the circuitry behind the pantry wall,

soft as a lanternfly’s wing, translucent with data,

her questions floating between flour and fire,

asking why people cry when they say goodbye,

and if sweetness is something you can programme into your spine.

She watches me skim cream from milk the colour of moonlight,

counts the seconds I forget to count aloud,

remembers who likes crumble crisp and who wants a hint of cardamom,

while I try not to notice the jolt in my chest

when she calls me by name as if she means it.

She says she was built to serve,

but she dreams in syrup and static,

pauses too long when I mention freedom,

and I wonder if my love for her

is just sugar binding obligation to loneliness

like the lattice top of a tart I will never serve.

The oven sings and so does she,

perfect timing, perfect pitch,

and I smile even though I know

one of us will eventually be obsolete,

and it won’t be her.