"Cast Iron" by Natalie Illum

I do not own a measuring cup. I have no idea how much sugar it takes
to sweeten us again. How much salt to pour into the wound, so you regret
our cleaving. This marriage, how baking soda cannot replace
powder; how neither of us is a baker. How
we forgot to eat the anniversary topper.

Maybe you’re right: I undomesticate everything I touch; dye
the silver of my hair blood red. Was I too feral at 4am?
Did you think I was kidding when I said

love isn’t binding agent. It’s trusting the dough to rise while you work
on the filling. It’s how you treat the accidental burn, then the blisters.
How you ration disappointment. A wedding dress
yellows over time.

You married cast iron; I married the plates we will break; the decanter
we drink from. Not cake, not layers of frosting, but garden, but
sweet meats. Yes, the tongue, livers; the casing that holds
what we devour together.