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"Soufflé"
Sophia Kartsonis
Five days into February, they’re snowed-in
together for the first time. They are early
at this thing they’ve yet to name and she is thinking
about soufflés, how she knows nothing of how they’re made
just how readily they fall. He recalls the bread factory
near his first apartment and the smell of what had to be
a promise in the air. She watches the snowflakes fall in braids:
ropes of double-helixed descent, and considers the patterns
things draw as they drop. For years he’s thought nothing
about snowcreme: fresh snow, vanilla, sugar, and milk
in the dairy glass bottles, but today she remembers
the sweetness, the recipe for the way to take a weather in.
together for the first time. They are early
at this thing they’ve yet to name and she is thinking
about soufflés, how she knows nothing of how they’re made
just how readily they fall. He recalls the bread factory
near his first apartment and the smell of what had to be
a promise in the air. She watches the snowflakes fall in braids:
ropes of double-helixed descent, and considers the patterns
things draw as they drop. For years he’s thought nothing
about snowcreme: fresh snow, vanilla, sugar, and milk
in the dairy glass bottles, but today she remembers
the sweetness, the recipe for the way to take a weather in.
