Pumpkin Cheesecake for One

     After the chill, the remaining half 
     of the dense orange-ocher drama, 
     formerly known as dessert--

     a decadent superfluousness--
     sits like a stern magistrate on the top shelf of 
     my empty fridge as if urging me: contemplate.

     I think back, imagining myself as 
     the springform pan--my embrace, unfulfilled,
     holding out for more.

     I put myself back in the awkward position of 
     the lemon juice and cream cheese (halved),
     the condensed milk and graham cracker crumbs 

     (both, also, necessarily halved).  And the eggs 
     being broken open, with too much force--
     small globs of sunlight arcing across the kitchen.

     (But the sugar, that I kept constant.)

     And after all of this mess, this reduction,
     the product still pressured to be, somehow, 
     whole.

     But there is no such thing as half a joy.
     And I'm beginning to doubt 
     this was ever worth the bother.

     There used to be good reason to, 
     a hungering for, and, afterward,
     fulfillment.

     Now, there's just this thing made smaller,
     this questioning why.


     James Whitley
 	

     
     *         *          *
        

     about the poem:

     "This poem is part of a collection I've completed that focuses on 
     the many emotions one wrestles with when a romantic relationship 
     ends suddenly. I like this poem because it shows how even the appeal 
     of things that generally bring us happiness (in this case, one of 
     my favorite fattening treats) can be tainted when feelings of despair 
     and loss dominate our lives. It was cathartic to write about grappling 
     for meaning in the face of adversity in this way."



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