Quarter Cup Sugar

Four eggs, beaten, baby, beaten, she says, 

gimmie some sugar so he slides his finger on the table top

walks his index up to her lips and shush shush

keep whisking, no time for beater licking: she has eggs

to look after, she'll turn her rump, broad swish;

nutmeg hands dabbling the cream and hip

bumping the oven door til heat steams her eyebrows

to glisten, her dollop chin will tell him which side

of the wooden table to stand on, he's in the way while she stir-stir 

smacks and thumbs open jars, popping lip and hip cocked 

finger in the pot but it ain't done yet

fingers meant to be licked and salt sifting

onto buttersoft palms, sidestepping black-burnt eyes

til he knows he's done wrong

so she stops, fingertips swifting the sweet

up to his lips like a kiss.