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 ekphrastic poem's title is the second line from one of my earlier poems, that poem was made up of incomplete sentences, that drove me nuts, but somehow made great titles.

Shared with DVerse Poets Pub for Open Link Night.

©2026 Christopher Reilley 

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