Pastry Chef Lost - by Debora Gilson

Wearing a disposable infant diaper
her cat lies on the bakery office floor staring blankly
He is at once ethereal and macabre

Mary Margaret rolls out the puff pastry across a long floured table

Plastic credit has been used to pay
For blood transfusions, the forced feedings
He is the mate of her soul and she will not see him dead

She says its that time of the month again, the flow heavy, the cramps painful

Customers have complained about the chocolate chip cookies
So, she makes a new batch, the same larded recipe of her grandmother
She tells them that these are made of butter believing they cannot tell the difference

She is the first of four Marys, the sisters to four Josephs

Slowly each cupcake is lifted
the frosting massaged over the top, again and again
She thinks this is the love, but its really the desperation

She moves across the kitchen, La Tortuga, her first steps sluggish and slow

During the long nights in front of the ovens
She drinks the boxed wine purchased to make the soup stock
The freckled Irish morning face has dulled and slackened

She says she's sorry she forgot to take the bread dough out of the cooler last night

The cat dies, the customers do not return in the morning
She lies drunk on the floor
The croissants crushed, the cakes in the pastry case upside down

She is bare, the contents of her stomach on the bathroom floor, left for the angels to clean