by Lisa Eve Cheby

They say you can’t have your cake
and eat it, too. 

          But what if I am the cake
          left on the counter this morning?

You finger
the custard filling

impatient
for breakfast.

I blow
the saints candles out

afraid to lose another year
of this miracle of

                       not dying                    

            is how you make me feel,
luxurious as pastel tres leches.

After you lick your fingers clean I say

          I think you just wrote the 13th stanza
          to the poem.     

You throw your head back,
          mouth unabashedly open         
                   with laughter                               

pure and clear as LA
after rain        

          sudden and sure
       as wildfire.