Fruitcake Rhapsody

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.

 

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