by Jim Farfaglia
It was the night I began to think
maybe you loved me,
all that sugar and all your time
wasted,
but you wouldn’t quit –
damned if you’d let your son
show up at the school party
emptyhanded, so
on a chair by the stove, I watched
as you showed me
like a patient dad would
how to make
perfect fudge:
stir over a steady heat
drop a dot of hot brownness
in a cup of cold water
watch it curl at the bottom
scoop a finger in
to test it on your tongue
That’s how life could go
when things turned out
just right,
tossing to the trash
our first and second
our third and fourth
failings,
ending with something
solid and sweet,
something I could show the world
came from love.