(taut jeans dancing)

An Anthology of Poetry about Being Young and Growing Up
Table Of Contents
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DECEMBER13th 1999

Jenna McGuire

The winter sun reaches through the kitchen window and shines on the sheet of kolache dough spread over a layer of flour four feet long, so thin that I can see the grain of the wood through the fingerprint flower I made on the edge. I stand on tiptoe on a stool, wrapped in an apron that is decorated all over with puffs of flour and lean forward to watch my father draw a knife over the dough, dividing it into a grid of three-inch squares. When the blade moves on, I spoon a small amount of filling from the bowel to my left and spread it over the first square, peel two fragile corners off the flour with my thumbs and roll the dough around the filling into a kolache. I tuck it into a cookie tray and move on, listening as my father hums as his grandmother might have hummed, and then he reminds me not to use too much filling and to keep the rolls tight, as his father might have reminded him.

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