I want to be cinnamon
to be mixed with sugar
when I am braided into dough and sprinkled on its edges
I hide in the lines of Grandmother’s fingers
folded in her prayers
rubbed onto grandchildren’s lips
to sweeten a careful kiss
to nourish the ants on the rug
and so
I might dissolve into the memory of childhood
and forever bake poems
with the scent of cinnamon
as if I could solve my heartache with spices
and steady it with sugar’s promise.