I have always believed in sweetness
should have standards.
It should not arrive desperate,
powdered, trembling,
begging to be chosen
from behind the bakery glass.
No.
Sweetness should enter
with a slow hip,
a clean hem,
a private altar,
and a vocabulary
large enough
to know the difference
between indulgence
and inheritance.
Pecan pie knows.
She sits at the table
glossed in brown sugar,
wearing her amber crown,
full of butter, memory,
and a little ancestral attitude.
She does not ask,
Is this too much?
She knows she is too much.
That is the point.
Cheesecake, however,
is another matter entirely.
Cheesecake is quite troublesome.
Cream in a silk robe.
A woman who says very little
because she already knows
The room is watching.
One bite,
and suddenly
everybody is spiritual.
Everybody believes in surrender.
Everybody remembers
they have a body.
This is the warmth I mean.
Not the kind of heat
that comes to conquer,
perform, or prove.
I mean summer warmth
on bare shoulders.
Spring delights
in the throat.
That soft, golden hour
when the body says,
Child, you have mourned enough.
Come taste what stayed sweet.
I was raised on vocabulary, too.
Oxford,
blue book, neat columns,
definitions lined up
like little soldiers
trying to discipline
the mouth.
Abate.
Benevolent.
Candid.
Diligent.
All those words
standing there in uniform,
waiting for Friday’s test,
while my spirit
was already somewhere else,
learning a language
no worksheet could hold.
Because sweetness
has its own lexicon.
Permission.
Appetite.
Mercy.
Desire.
Reprieve.
Again.
Again,
as in, yes,
I will have another slice.
Again,
As in, I survived the bitter thing
and still did not become bitter.
Again,
as in, my mouth
is not a courtroom.
My pleasure
does not need a witness
to be valid.
There is a kind of woman
who apologizes
before she reaches
for the dessert plate.
I used to know her.
She counted crumbs
like evidence.
She cut joy
into respectable portions.
She mistook restraint
for holiness
because no one taught her
that the sacred
could be served warm.
Now I know better.
There is theology
in the crust.
There is resurrection
in the filling.
There is a whole sermon
in the slow closing
of the eyes
when sweetness
finally reaches
the tongue.
And please,
Let us be honest.
Some people fear sweetness
because it exposes them.
They can handle discipline,
labor, silence,
even suffering,
But place joy
in front of them
with a fork and a linen napkin,
and suddenly
They become very concerned
about moderation.
How convenient.
I have no interest
in being admired
for starving beautifully.
I want the plate.
The poem.
The porch light.
The late spring air.
The summer dress.
The room where laughter
returns to my chest
Like it paid rent there.
I want pecan pie
with the audacity
of a woman who kept living.
I want cheesecake
with the composure
of someone who has forgiven herself.
I want sweetness
that does not infantilize me,
sweetness with a backbone,
sweetness with gold earrings,
sweetness that knows
How to pray
and talk back.
So yes,
I take my pleasure seriously.
I bless the fork.
I honor the crumb.
I let the sugar
teach my mouth
a softer grammar.
And when the lesson comes,
I will not lower my hand.
I will sit at the table,
poised and dangerous,
laughing a little,
full of spring,
full of summer,
full of myself
in the most accurate way.
My name
at the top of the page.
My appetite
spelled correctly.
My sweetness
defined
by no one
but me—
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