MOIST, SWEET, CAKE-LIKE & QUICK

Written by Nida Mubaraki
I’m baking the bread you made me 
in the days I didn't know apologies.
The bananas aren’t ripe enough and 
the chocolate chunks are too sweet, 
but at least I can shovel buckets of batter            
       into
                    my
                                 mouth
instead of being buried by your words.
                             All you
                             ever
                             think
                             about is

yourself. Yet you are the abnormality 
under this kitchen light, and these curses 
that you gave me are followed by the bread
that replaced all those remedial things.
You do not know the power of apology–
          I'm
                  sorry
but you know the power of fresh 
baked goods and sullen sobs– 
don’t you?

All you 
ever think 
about 
is the touch of your hand pulling 
on my hair 
and my mind 
and then pushing 
me forward, the meaning of consent 
never circulating your cerebrum. 
Motherhood is 
murder, 
is violent,
is pushing me off of a cliff,
sending me into a sea of pies and pastries 
and pudding and parfait. 
A parfait of your misguidance and disgust 
and disappointment, 
the granola grueling me to my core when 
you tell me that

                            All you 
                   ever think about 
                   is 
getting fat off of your fake promises and 
full-sugar food. 
Banana bread is filling 
           up my cup
instead of tears and whispered apologies. 
The sweet thick loaf and vanilla haze
intoxicates my raw fingertips till I’m bare, 
no more tears dripping and 
no
     more
            stomach
                      room for
            seconds.

The oven dings. Mellow cinnamon wafts 
through your bitter tone while you are 
wailing a whisper that
all
      you
            ever
                    think
                             about
            is
yourself.
Banana bread is not an apology and being 
sad is not the same as being selfish. 
Banana bread batter is beckoning me to 
beat myself over and over. 

Banana bread is bloating my breasts and 
broadening my belly to the brim of its 
maximum.
Banana bread babied me when you did 
not. 
Banana bread is moist, sweet, cake-like & 
quick, just like the girl I’ve grown up to be.
She
         smells
                  like
                             you.

.

Nida Mubaraki is a New Jersey- and Philadelphia-based writer. She studies creative writing at Bryn Mawr and has work in/forthcoming in Maudlin House, Bullshit Lit, Fish Barrel Review, and HaluHalo Journal, amongst others. She works as the senior editor, Twitter head, and a contributor for The Empty Inkwell Review. Email her at nidamubaraki@gmail.com or find her on Twitter: @pennedbynida.