Last Tuesday Morning
Sara wedges small oranges
with a large, black knife
that I should have used
to chop pistachios
in the morning,
last Tuesday.

Last Tuesday,
I forked flour,
cubed cold butter;
my fingers mixed
the two until
crumbly and soft.

I strapped on my old headlamp
(pre-sunrise in a sleeping house).
I stirred whole pistachios—too large,
but so quietly,
—quiet, like the faint breaths of gas from the old oven—
into batter with the blueberries and buttermilk.

I scooped dough
with a wooden spoon
onto a sheet and baked
for twenty-two minutes,
twelve scones for
my still-sleeping friends.

The house warmed from gas breaths,
scone smell,
and fresh Syrian tea.
Sara and I ate by the window
with pistachios unbroken,
some on the plate.

But when the sun rose, and headlamps retired,
the morning un-paused when I wasn’t ready.
We dumped dishes in the sink,
grabbed sweatshirts and backpacks
and pedaled toward traffic,
down cold morning streets.