Burnt Cherry

The pastry crumbled in my mouth 
Its light crackle openning into a garden of memories like a creaking door

A slight film of greasy butter 
underlays the village drawing in my tongue 

Like the cannal that gives polluted life to my kin of the kampung

Each bitter cherry bursting back conversations with a companion 

Laughter returning through the sweetness that takes away the bite

Somehow, without rhyme or reason 

Winter French Patisserie flies me across the ocean and back to tropical Nusantara

A home still imprinted like a photograph in my treasure chest