All Frosting No Cake

image from Julia Child's recipe site

All Frosting, No Cake

I have perfected the soufflé of bravado—

whipped air, sugared stiff,

served tall in a thimble.

Behold my résumé of meringue:

peaks so glossy you can check your teeth in them,

structure held together

by rumors of eggs.

I am a cathedral of buttercream,

spackled thick as denial,

rosettes piped with a flourish

like I’m signing autographs for the mirror.

Inside?

A polite echo.

A room rented by applause.

I stack compliments like tiered wedding fantasies—

fondant draped smooth as a politician’s promise,

each layer supported by dowels of “I’m fine.”

Slice me open and you’ll find

a generous helping of almost.

I’ve been mistaking decoration for devotion,

confusing sparkle with substance,

calling the sprinkles “confetti”

as if this were a celebration

and not a cleverly lit distraction.

But frosting melts under honest weather.

The roses slump. The sugar sweats.

The air goes out of my grand performance

with a soft, embarrassed sigh.

So here I am, fork in hand,

laughing at my own confection—

sweet, impressive, structurally hypothetical.

Next time, I’ll try flour.

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This poem is the second line from one of my earlier poems, that poem was made up of incomplete sentences, that somehow made great titles.

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Christopher Reilley Poems