Lamb Cake

It’s the late 1940s. 
Too many decades have passed 
to recall the exact year. 
But of the day and month, 
December 1, I am positive, 
for it is my birthday. 
I’m seated at the checkered 
and oil-clothed table 
in the kitchen—
a building altogether separate 
from the rest of our house 
on Bowen Creek. 
The warmth in the room radiates
from the wood-burning cook stove, 
and the scent of winter’s smoke 
hangs in the air. 
I’m surrounded by the laughter 
of five older siblings 
and both my parents, 
my widened eyes riveted on the cake 
planted at the table’s center. 
All we ever got on our birthday 
to this point was a spanking—
one lick for each year, 
one to grow on, 
and one to get married on. 
So, I’m thinking, 
Surely this ain’t happenin’ ta me. 
I ain’t never had a birthday cake before. 
Nobody in all o’my family never has. 
In fact, hit’s never been part o’ our dreams 
o’ thangs to have. 
So, this here cake musta drifted 
down from heaven. 
Hit’s a lamb cake. 
That oughta tell where it’s from. . 
After assurance and reassurance 
from my mother 
that it is indeed my birthday cake, 
I continue staring at it in disbelief—
guard it with my life for days afterwards 
and won’t allow a living soul to touch it. 
Heaven forbid they should ask for a piece 
or maybe take a knife to it. 
So, time drifts by, as time always does, 
and with its passage, the cake hardens 
and becomes inedible to the human species. 
I’m never repentant, though. 
It’s my cake—mine to feast on 
with empty eyes 
instead of an unfilled stomach—
even to worship as a gift 
from the God of heaven if I wish.