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Butter

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Written by Connie Wanek

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 Butter, like love,
seems common enough
yet has so many imitators.
I held a brick of it, heavy and cool, and glimpsed what seemed like skin beneath a corner of its wrap; the decolletage revealed a most attractive fat! And most refined.
Not milk, not cream, not even creme de la creme.
It was a delicacy which assured me that bliss follows agitation, that even pasture daisies through the alchemy of four stomachs may grace a king's table.
We have a yellow bowl near the toaster where summer's butter grows soft and sentimental.
We love it better for its weeping, its nostalgia for buckets and churns and deep stone wells, for the press of a wooden butter mold shaped like a swollen heart.


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