Lucky Girl, No Eggshells
Puberty preheats my daughter to 350 degrees,
warms her eggs like turgid butter
as she fills and empties measuring cups and spoons.
In a steady rhythm she folds the batter,
snaps crescents into a wooden mixing bowl.
Her breast buds are little lumps of baking powder
dusted with salt. Swollen. Surfacing soon.
She scrapes a metal bowl clean
then taps it with a spoon, spreading
dollops of batter on a greased tray
before she pops it in the oven.
Mounds of walnuts, butterscotch chips,
and raisins erupt with cinnamon dust.
With floured hands she clears the table,
wipes them on her navy blouse.
Now the waiting. Buttermilk with a side of night.
Little hairs are sprouting on her pubic bone, knuckles, and ankles,
light fuzz around lips and chin.
Carefully she reveals the risen confections, covers them
with a kitchen towel, sets them to cool on the ledge.