and Iain slings his baked Alaska
in the bin. The whole spoiled
sweet. There’s talk of faulty freezers.
Sabotage. Enraged viewers
blame Diana. In loss,
I too demand a Diana.
I too, in loss, am reckoning–
It’s an old episode. Each time
I watch, Iain goes home. Somewhere
in Ireland, he keeps on
marveling at the task’s audacity:
freeze it and torch it. Make it
two things at once. And let it be
lovely. Something honeyed
that holds. His mates clasp his shoulders.
Say That’s the way the sponge cake
crumbles. Say When life gives you
lemons. Say The meringue works
in mysterious ways—
voices weightless as egg whites
whipped to stiff peaks.