By Rachel Hoge
Mornings brought fried dough
polished in glaze, dripping like wax,
yeast rising early for
hungry little hands.
I was eight before I knew
that potatoes were fried
and vegetables were bitter.
Like the night they told me my sister
wasn’t all mine, wasn’t all ours but
a remnant of an army man from Texas.
I mixed shortening with sugar and
spun cinnamon in dough, my farctate body
rising from the oven, full of yeast and
butter and the fear that my sister and I
were full of ingredients too different