Your worries ran like picklejuice that day
into the sweet daily dough of our marriage
and into it I stuck my spite like peppercorns.
We fired it with anger,

then burst apart from the untasty mess,
you to your room, I to mine,
our stung tongues heavy in our mouths.

While you worked away your worry in the night,
I baked away my spite, brought a plate late
to your room with milk, crisp little spice discs
the way you’ve brought me roses of regret,
sharp with remorse, sweet with love.