Bake Sales, Anyway
We brought guns to the firehouse bake sale,
shot into the eroded hill, bought carrot cake
with cream cheese frosting. Snow
forced everything from the walls.
We caught the carpet-mouse, left him
asleep in a box with crayoned windows.
At church, the priest must’ve said something
before we sang Hallelujah. Our hands
must’ve been cold, even in mittens.
Climbing into the truck, frost snagged
our tights and dresses, our bodies smashed
together on vinyl seats for warmth.
We raced to the front porch to lick
the icicle hanging from gutter to ground, found
Amy laughing in the doorway wearing jeans,
her purple socks sinking in the burnt orange
shag with olive freckles. Amy is always
in the doorway laughing. In the front yard snow
the mouse’s blood is always red.
We waited inside until sunshine, grass, then ice
melted in our lemonade cooler. Some men
gave us five dollars for a Dixie cup full,
then drove away waving, their lips wet.