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Churned Butter

I used to laugh at my grandmother 

and her womenfolk for sitting

on the front porch talking

about everything and nothing,

their words gooey and hot, glazed the summer air like the thick,

syrupy nectar of honey bees.


But now I’m one of those women

surrounded by ladies of my own

and my daughter’s constant cooing

from her bassinette. Here in the middle 

of this women’s talk I sneak

a peep at her, my grandmother’s

words kneaded on my lips,

creamy and curdled like

the butter she used to churn.

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