So far, exactly as recalled, the proper, practiced moves and modes

But somehow, next day, different, those final, long-awaited acts . . .

denuding of the soft marshmallow slab

the way it sweetly, keenly clings to oiled-up foil as if they're one

then, responding to my gentled touch, slightly, so very slightly

eases off a tiny bit, an inch, lets go so very slow

feels like it will not, can't surrender

needs me, needs pressing help from my two living hands.

urged on, little by little, 'til at long last

the soft yet firm white slab lies naked, curvy, full revealed

Awaiting more anointing, silken sifted cornstarch,

snowy fine, like talcum fluttered from some classic gilt-edged tin

floating down to satin tame the sticky bouncy stuff

Preparing it for. . . piercing, slicing, separation

by me, my small sharp silver knife

And as I do all that, each salient step

the easing, pushing, smoothing, pressing, severing

at long last forming plump pale cubes of sweet French bliss

take note of what's at work today in this recaptured Easter prep

Nothing much to do right now with kind provision of sweet treats

Everything to do with me-me-me, with my sensations

the scents, the sights, the gentle, penetrating touch

insisting . . . something — what? that I am sensate?

that I still breathe, move, feel?

That in this no doubt sad dull silent solitary way

am incarnate, still alive. . . ?