<html><head><meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"></head><body style="word-wrap: break-word; -webkit-nbsp-mode: space; line-break: after-white-space;" class=""><div dir="auto" style="word-wrap: break-word; -webkit-nbsp-mode: space; line-break: after-white-space;" class="">Butter<div class=""><br class=""></div><div class=""><p style="margin: 0px 0px 5px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; color: rgb(39, 39, 39);" class="">My mother loves butter more than I do,<br class="">
more than anyone. She pulls chunks off<br class="">
the stick and eats it plain, explaining<br class="">
cream spun around into butter! Growing up<br class="">
we ate turkey cutlets sauteed in lemon<br class="">
and butter, butter and cheese on green noodles,<br class="">
butter melting in small pools in the hearts<br class="">
of Yorkshire puddings, butter better<br class="">
than gravy staining white rice yellow,<br class="">
butter glazing corn in slipping squares,<br class="">
butter the lava in white volcanoes<br class="">
of hominy grits, butter softening<br class="">
in a white bowl to be creamed with white<br class="">
sugar, butter disappearing into<br class="">
whipped potatoes, with pineapple,<br class="">
butter melted and curdy to pour<br class="">
over pancakes, butter licked off the plate<br class="">
with warm Alaga syrup. When I picture<br class="">
the good old days I am grinning greasy<br class="">
with my brother, having watched the tiger<br class="">
chase his tail and turn to butter. We are<br class="">
Mumbo and Jumbo’s children despite<br class="">
historical revision, despite<br class="">
our parent’s efforts, glowing from the inside<br class="">
out, one hundred megawatts of butter.</p><div class=""><br class=""></div></div><div class=""><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>- Elizabeth Alexander</div></div></body></html>