Butter Side Up
You don’t fear falling
once you have learned to always
land butter side up.
A friend recently told me
he could not imagine
me having a hard life
In many ways, I don’t
my bills get paid
I knew on our first date
that my spouse was my forever
my home is safe and warm
but I have unseen pain
I have looked into the eyes
of my son wrapped up in the throes
of a substance and mental illness
I have held him when he kept saying
he couldn’t go on
I have sat with him when he couldn’t stand
to be touched by another human
Sitting in the hospital with him was a
frequent event at one time
but at this point he refuses any help
I am the enemy and I probably deserve
that in some ways, because I keep trying to help
when help from others is not what he wants
the choice to not be in the situation he is in
is his alone. That is hard for me
I am his mother, I NEED to help
but my needs are not important
I pray constantly, I try to live my life
but knowing that I could be notified at any time
that he has harmed himself irreparably,
it is very hard to be my own self
Yet, that is what I must do
my life is indeed hard right now
but I do have hope and trust in God
that although things might not
happen as I want them to,
my life is worth the effort
it takes to move forward,
even when it feels like it is caving inward
It takes more than simply slicing
bread, slattering it with butter while
it’s piping hot. That’s the easy
part, of course. Immediate
satisfaction is not what you seek.
Slowly sifting flour, patiently
waiting for yeast to rise, proof
dough requires gentle kneading
before baking to perfection. Crust
protects soft crumb, inner portion
only your partner knows. Perhaps
you prefer unleavened, unless
baking challah, leaving a piece
behind. Accept gluten and scores
as cuts we carry, external scars
enhance character, inviting
your beloved to fill cracks
with love you offer each other.
It’s really that simple if you
let it. It only takes practice,
time, patience, and love
you’ve found with each other
bound by tying apron strings,
exchanging vows, sealed
with a kiss after rings slide
on fingers. Bands you’ll forget
to remove when baking
because you’ll never want
to take them off, symbol
of eternal commitment
lasting longer than heating
an oven, kneading a loaf,
sharing piping hot magic
composed of four ingredients
when it only takes two. Groom
and groom perfect union
as you’ve ignited a fire
prepared to bake a lifetime
of memories, remembering
commitment of matrimony.
The yard needs mowing,
The dishes washing,
The laundry folding,
The tub cleaning,
Still.
But space,
It would seem,
Needs to be stared into
Even
More.
The morning misinforms
and mutes the early light
a hint to a somber day
Then the dull mask
falls off the sky
and light flows to surprise
Feel that sun, it caresses
like a mother bathing her baby
and the warmth is love
But then it presses down
on my softer being
and the burn licks the skin
A step into the shade
would keep the heat
in balance with the breeze
But I want more than offered
all aligned to my liking
so I retreat inside
and hoist gloom above me
returning the day’s gift
with petulance
Night is often too far from present
when anxious to begin again
closing the blinds,
like the dust covered curtains of a tired stage,
to invite the turn of a frayed page
it’s always the same story of unlikely heroes
in the bright places of dark dreams
I hold their unfinished faces close
to breathe in their feelings of home
in those slippery moments of wake
I still believe I am not alone
Sometimes the sound of roots singing is –
Rain on the porch roof, dripping from the eaves
Hot smoke from cornbread in an iron skillet
A low burble of potatoes boiling
A thrumming pop from a Mason jar of green beans
The soft sizzle of salmon patties frying
Tea purling from a pitcher onto cracking ice in heavy glasses
A voice carrying across thick summer evening air, “Dinner’s ready!”
The round heavy bong of a dinner bell
A low hum of hymns from a woman in an apron
Underscored by the thrum of voices,
Songs lifted by the women who came before
Aunts, sisters, cousins, mamas, and grandmamas
Neighbor ladies, church ladies, friends, and teachers
Coveys of women
Singing deep songs of love
That we feel in our bones
Laying their luscious bounty
On heavy laden tables draped in feed-sack tablecloths
Praying, telling stories, laughing
And always
Offering one more helping
i’m twisting this tea over the railing of your porch
to do a shotgun with you and you always finish first
your button up is still hanging on the hook
after that show months ago
it was one of the good times
and you just wanna remember those
my hairbrush is still on the floor of your car
i wanna like you but you make it so hard
but then you get american spirits cause you know they’re my favorite
you pretend every one is your last so you can savor it
i don’t believe in god but i always let you talk
when you say “we’re getting saved thanks to him”
