Cupcake Darts

Poetry
06-30-02024

I remember vegan cupcake day,

every Thursday at the Porter College dining hall,

when all the freegan forest children

would emerge from their redwood shanties outside campus,

and hop the back fence,

and sneak through the patio doors.



I remember we call them ‘woodsies’.

They smelled terrible and lived bravely.



I remember the old Zuni women,

who tore her cupcake in two

across its equator.

She ate the bottom like a cookie,

and licked the frosting top like an ice cream cone

for dessert.

I remember it as magic,

treat from treat,

like Eve from Adam.

Her dessert’s dessert.



I remember 3rd grade,

and how terrible I was at spelling.

How I couldn’t keep desert and dessert sorted.

Then someone told me dessert has two S’s,

“Because you always want some more.”



I’m trying now,

to remember the difference

between pleasure and living.

Which do I want more of?



I remember that key development stage in children,

of spotting false dichotomies,

of knowing unknown thirds

as the invisible everything.



So much I don’t remember.

Ice cubes in a crystal glass,

losing distinction with passing time.

Becoming that one clear thing.

The stuff of life.



How much of my body is water again?

70 percent?

80 percent?

90?

I’d believe any answer.



How much of my life have I forgotten?

I’d believe any answer.



Of all the stuff that lived me,

what I know sits surface side,

like an oil slick

over ocean trench.



I do remember working at Ceramicafe

when I was 17.

Those terrible cupcakes

left over after children’s birthday parties.

Stale,

with saccharine frosting.

They left canola oil slicks on my lips,

like the smallest Exxon-Valldez.



Sam and I made a butcher paper target.

We hung it on the wall,

and invented the stupidest game,

or most stupid.



Cupcake Darts.



Back then I would throw anything at the wall,

just to see what stuck.