I gift my sons a love of butter,
scooped by the spoonful
from the ceramic crock left
on the countertop. We worry
not that it’ll rot. It never
lasts that long. We’ve perfected
the heat beneath the glass
warmer, clotted and creamy
pours over steamy
pancakes. Or the careful fill
of every waffle pock. And the
slabs set in ice, holding their
shape while we roll ears of corn,
dressing each kernel as if a life
depended. And those puddles
softening the heart of velvet
garlicked potatoes. And what
of those pats who sat atop
shaved parmesan, fading
into fat egg noodles?
Nothing like that fake
stuff I grew up with—
brewed of plastic & trans-
fat—clogging heart-
valves, lifting LDLs, leaving
something sticky like the way
a lie lingers, and later,
haunts. Or the way Mother
hid bruises on her daughter’s
face—protecting
her husband’s fist.
I toiled for the real deal,
the slightly salted
sweetness spreading ‘cross
my tongue, sugaring my
throat like pudding, or
banana cream pie.
I worked hard to grant
my sons their greasy
grins, their side licks
on upturned lips, glazing
the stain of ancestral hurt
into a curdy afterglow.
Rebecca Evans writes the difficult, the heart-full, the guidebooks for survivors. Her work has appeared in Narratively, The Rumpus, Brevity, and more. She's earned two MFAs, one in creative nonfiction, the other in poetry, University of Nevada, Reno at Lake Tahoe. She’s authored a full-length poetry collection, Tangled by Blood (Moon Tide Press, 2023), and has a second poetry book, Safe Handling, forthcoming (Moon Tide Press, 2024). She shares space with four Newfoundlands and her sons in a tiny Idaho town.
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