of creativity within her,
no skill
at song, or word,
art.
she turned
to what
she could do
in order to thwart off
the demons
that troubled
her soul.
in her hands she took
to butter
and cream, sugar, eggs,
all swished
together in
the large bowl.
there was order to her
life now, control.
the recipe,
the set time and temperature
of the oven.
the layered cakes,
and shaped by hand
muscles of dough,
at last there was
some vague sense of being
part of this world,
of being born.
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