Deconstructed Birthday Cake
 
The birthday cake sits on Formica.
Eight unlit candles stand proud –
my father’s bake, uneaten,
lemon icing sticky as temptation.
 
Un-skewer the holes in crust,  
watch as a lemon back-sucks juice 
and the oven un-spews the sponge,
into the tins, into the bowl.
 
Un-cream the butter,
the sugar, the self-raising flour,
the un-cracking of eggs,
the un-beating, un-blending
 
until the surface is clear,
just a faint trace of grated zest
hangs in the air,
hints at his very existence.
 
Kate Young

If you have any thoughts about this poem,  Kate Young would be pleased to hear them