A cheerful confetti of
crisp candied fruits and
crunchy pecans
dots the dark, bourbon-tinged sweetness.
An indulgence of tastes and textures
calls from the round red tin on the
breakfast room sideboard.
Just one little piece –
no one will notice –
one more nibble
and again one more.
I seek then savor
a succulent cherry.
Pursuing pineapple and pecan
my free-will fingers
pinch off more moist crumbs.
Most grownups eat whole slices
from a plate, sitting down,
but in this childhood haven
I fall back on old habits,
yield to temptation
sneak snacks
as if anyone but my thighs
would care.
I don’t fathom the jokes
about fruitcakes as
leaden lumps that
circulate year after year.
The fruitcake of my memory
conjures comfort and warmth,
childhood and home,
the incomparable bliss
of Erma’s holiday treat.