Sunday and she bakes a sponge cake
He has not been home for several hours
I put my hands on the kitchen table
The apron wraps around her calves
while the room is filled with sweetness

Mom helped me with the measurements, she says
On the table her mother’s head is tilted
against another man’s shirtfront

The table top is scratched
Circular depressions beneath the paint
I put my fingertips over them
and pretend they do not exist

She takes out a tray with two baking tins
hits them hard against the sink
The crackling sound and the vapours when she cuts
Yet I cannot get anything down

Aren´t you coming , I ask
She stops for a second
before the movement with the potholder
proceeds

The sunglasses do not hide her lips
and this time
I see the upper arm discolorations

When I sit in the car
Just pain