by the time we had bitten (into) it,
you were already gone: as dusty as pastry
flour now, that so often stuck to your
skirt. A swan song crust, flown back
from Valhalla, stolen from the dead. Susanne
from Silesia, soldiers trample through the
filling, leaving boot marks in your jam. Slicing
some rye against your ample bosom, the knife
pointing skinward: it scared not a few. Your
eyelid chandeliers are sending smoke today, but
your sweet little crumbs as yet unswept.