In another life, my father bakes.
He scours the Web for recipes, takes

blanched almond flour off acacia shelves
beats eggs and sprinkles sugar. He halves

the bourbon spilling into the mix.
(Some things only alcohol can fix.)

In another life, my father waits,
crouched by the oven door. Bloviates—

ticks off seconds on his fingertips.
Presses cream-tossed frosting to his lips,

proclaims perfection. The kettle sings
a hundred airy notes, and within:

our familiar voices blending.
We sit across each other, tending

to the slices, slender and sour-sweet.
In another life, my father keeps

pictures in the pockets of his coat
with rhymes and recipes I once wrote.

He carries them close on cloudy days.
In another life, my father stays.