Cinnamon Sugar

A Poem by Joy E. S. Manning

Photo by Nik on Unsplash

She spirals leftover dough
with sweet cinnamon, the pies
bake to meet the rent
and scent others’ plates. Sugar
is not for our table, but measured
in blood, dropped from his pricked
fingertips, his portions weighed
and counted. The savings
spills insulin and needles the months
he works without pay

I number cans in the cupboard

He comes home rain-soaked

She slides spirals in the oven

He turns up the radio,
I giggle, plant bare feet
on his damp shoes, clinging
as we swirl/whirl
to drumbeats on the roof
and Raindrops Keep Falling

Her smile sighs and his eyes
crease; we watch spirals
bake what he can’t
eat, the last sprinkle
of cinnamon sugar, filling
our home

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Joy is a former neonatal ICU nurse who works as a volunteer at her local art and history museums. She frequents farmers markets, keeps a sourdough starter, and enjoys the view from wide windows in her kitchen and by her desk. Joy writes fiction for young people and poetry for adults and children.