Memory is baklava. Layer upon layer of phyllo dough days stuck together. Even the mention of the pastry, and I’m back in that quirky cafe in Old Towne Square, sinking my teeth through a crisp piece. It’s New Year’s Day, and I’m cutting an apple in half, the one that’s supposed to predict my future. The syrupy taste of the pastry with the apple’s flesh, his flesh, the crucifix of seeds. And I remember his laugh: honey, lemon, and cinnamon. But when I blink, I’m back in Virginia, standing at the farmer’s market counter. The lady asks me again, if I’d like a piece of homemade baklava, but I tell her it’s too sweet for me. No, I’ll stick with apples. Besides, I’d given up those sorts of desserts years ago.
Recall baklava,
my then: tissue-paper thin,
it all falls apart.
©2023 | K. Hartless
dVerse Poet’s Pub | Haibun Monday 5-22-23: Memory
Art Credit: r/Art





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