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Diana Webb

Fudge at Midnight

The viscous liquid bubbles round the gold monolith of the thermomenteter. That mellow slightly burnt aroma. Possibly chocolate. Sometimes maple walnut. Apportioned in a criss-cross grid of deft incisions, each glistening cube removed and placed into its space inside a spare selection box, nudged by peppermint creams, communion wafer white and roses freshly bloomed in marzipan.

allowed to stay up—
that first glimpse of the baby
in his manger