For you, for your sorrow

Sometimes
our disappointment
possesses
a purity:
Sometimes
we are merely
blind.

My friend—
who could be
me
or any one
of us—
tells me,
tears
streaming
through
her voice:

I thought he was a cupcake
& instead he is
a biscuit.

My friend
is known
for her
good cooking
as we might be
too.
Still
for years
those
around her
witnessed
the unhoneyed
bitterness
kneaded
into
the flour
of this biscuit;
the greased 
lightning
rage
and
unseasoned 
scorn 
pounded 
into
the
dough.

Until, 
finally,
all sweetness
beaten away,
this biscuit,
much like biscuits
you and I have known
was baked
in
nobody’s
oven
but
her own.