My ex-wife took our KitchenAid
mixer when she moved out, a gift
for our wedding from long-time friends.
Of all the things that were a shock
to see gone from our apartment
when I came home from work one night –
a bookshelf, artwork, her dresser –

nine years later, about two times
the duration of our marriage,
this absence of a stand mixer 
is my most acute reminder 
of our breakup. Baking cookies 
is hard using the electric
hand-held she did not take with her. 

It requires patient technique.
A steady grip coaxes butter 
to blend with sugar. The pair absorb
each of the other’s qualities.
Over time, the batter begins
to be more than its parts: a sweet
and creamy golden prototype,

the start of something delicious.
I may never see her again
since she walked out of our shared life. 
The hand mixer she left behind
is not a consolation, 
but a souvenir of what we were 
unable to make of ourselves.