in the form
of scratch biscuits
hot from the oven,
a pad of land of lakes
on a cold plate,
a flat knife
to break them apart,
the swipe of butter
melting in the crumble.
she says nothing.
but it's an apology of sorts.
i don't ask her why,
i don't ask her
what she has done.
it's over now
whatever it was.
eat them, she says,
eat them
while they're still warm.
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