Plight

I promised. Everybody heard.
But later on I broke my word.

I broke it into two, then three,
and then by careful witchery

I made the little parts revive
and there were four of them, then five

then six. And soon they grew to nine.
I laid them on a tray of bone

and baked them slow and hot. And when
my cookery was good and done

I saw by light of setting sun
my word reconstitute as one—

and it was wedding. Two-tiered cake,
irresistible mistake.

I carry it myself to where
the guests are waiting. How they stare

at my trickery, at my way with air.

Helena Nelson

If you've any comments about this poem, Helena Nelson would be pleased to hear from you.