It is said of those who do not love
the god we fear,
it is a noun
that means intolerance.
It is said of hard-shelled things,
that scatter in the light.
Ian and Elsie McPherson owned a bakery,
they were of a generation;
he did the baking,
she decorated the cakes.
McPherson’s Bakery made a lemon pie
that crackled in your mouth.
People came from miles to buy that pie.
I worked for the McPhersons
when I was in my twenties.
Elsie taught me how to pipe a rose,
and make a gum paste lily.
I worked across the table from her,
every day, for years.
The National Civil Rights Museum called McPherson’s,
to order a sheet cake once.
A full sheet cake for MLK Day.
She watched me pipe the roses.
Her eyes were cold like a bird’s.
A troublemaker, she called him.
An opportunist.
In my brain I heard a snapping sound,
my face was hot and flushed;
opportunity, I said,
you mean to step out on that balcony,
to be shot point blank in the head?
The lemon pies were made in large batches,
twenty or more at a time.
Sometimes Ian would make a small, tart-sized lemon pie,
just for me.
They were of a generation,
which will be said of me one day.
We are a noun that means intolerance.
Hard-shelled things,
that scatter in the light.