Butter

by Christine Adams Beckett

While Irish soda bread
Filled the modest kitchen
With the yeasty aroma
Of a divided home,
The children,
Just shuffled from Father to Mother,
Taking wrong turns to the bathroom
And erroneously opening
Glassware cupboards
In search of plates,
Shake jelly jars.

Inside the covered glass,
All-natural cream, nurtured
With a dash of sea salt,
A teaspoon of local honey
From the apiary of a trusted friend
Slowly grows more viscous,
Changing physical form
From the trauma
Of a vigorous shake,
A violent love.

As young arms grow tired
Mother coaxes the liquid.
Clumps grow together
Into a solid yellow froth, a
Unified mass of opaque matter.

Fingers dipped, licked,
Knife spreads the
Smear onto a piping
Slice, brittle at the center.
A yellow brushstroke of Love,
Which grows transparent
As it melts.