There were only supposed to be twelve spiral arms
of cinnamon and raisins.
Then my doughy universe began
to expand, in a big bang boom it bloomed over
the top of the pan and the distance between
raisins increased exponentially,
like far-flung stars hurtling apart until
the heat overwhelmed the live, growing yeast
of creation and baked them into place.
And that is why, instead of a dozen
cinnamon rolls, we have an enormous,
if sparsely populated,
loaf of raisin bread.
Big Bang Bread.
It’s not a theory anymore.