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.